


Rainflower

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Dub-con (not between main characters), Gardens & Gardening, Ghosts, Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, Language of Flowers, M/M, Racism, Sexism, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 80,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a secluded Hertfordshire stately home, there is something hidden: an accidental time traveller from a foreign land, who budding gardener Castiel alone can see. But when the Great War sweeps through England, it takes Castiel with it - and his beloved Dean returns to 1979, having rejected him, and his advances, entirely.</p><p>Almost a year after Dean's miracle coma recovery, Kansas is quiet, and Castiel Novak is dead. Dean's next journey will take him home: to the garden where he abandoned his closest friend and their unconsummated romance. But the past is far closer than Dean dares to consider - his own sin shadows him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to jj, my wonderful beta, and thegolbinjester, who made some seriously beautiful art. You're both amazing! 
> 
> Warning: this story contains some serious racism, homophobia and sexism, and racist, homophobic and sexist language. These definitely aren't my views.
> 
> (Sorry for the time skips - it gets better, I promise!)

**nulla**

 

_January 14, 1980_

 

Dean Winchester is asleep, and he is dreaming about a highway. More specifically, he is dreaming about driving. The day is bright, and clear. There are clouds outside the windows. He feels light. 

A boy is in the passenger seat. He is wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans. The flat blue sky is held between them, in the curves of his thighs and his chest. Dean's fingers drum out a rhythm on his leg.

The windows are wound down entirely. The boy has his hand stretched out of one. He's laughing.

 _Cas?_ Dean says. _What's going on?_

Castiel turns his head. He has it thrown back, and he is smiling. His t-shirt rises over his stomach. His abdomen is scattered with freckles. 

 _Dean_ , he says. 

Dean guns the accelerator. They rocket. Castiel laughs louder. His smile practically splits his cheeks. There would be ribbons running down them, instead of blood. In good dreams, nothing can go wrong.

If Dean wanted to, in this moment in time, he could pull the car over to the roadside, and kiss Cas breathless. People do not have half so many inhibitions, while they are dreaming good dreams.

Castiel has a smudge of sauce on his chin. It looks like the ketchup you get out of squeezy tomato bottles.

Dean Winchester does not pull over.

He does not take his hands off the wheel. The road blurs by, flashing every inch. They make the cornfields sway. They make the sky shake. 

 _You do not belong to me_ , Dean says. _You never did._

Dean grins, and laughs, and laughs, until he can't hear himself anymore.

Castiel reaches out, and his fingers curl around Dean's, and they lock in, tight. Castiel's hands are warm; they're soft, too. The pads of his fingertips press against Dean's palm. They're scratchy. 

 _I do not belong to anyone,_ Cas says. And it is the truth. 

They pass their fourth gas station in the space of a mile. Castiel's sneakers are up against the windscreen.

 _Petrol_ , Castiel says, pointing at the dash, and Dean nods, and says, 

 _Sure._ So he pulls over. The ground's sun baked. Dean opens the door, and climbs outside, and roasts. He ambles over to the pump, and shakes it out, and fits it. 

The station's empty. The roof is red, and it slopes. There's a swinging sign out front. It says _Thank You For Your Custom_ and _Come Again Soon_. Next to it, there's another building: _Woodrow Antiquities_. They have a picture of a beech tree in the window. It's been stuck there with tape; it's to cover up the glass, Dean supposes. 

Dean watches it for a minute; then he walks back to the car, and raps on the window twice. _Cas?_ he says. 

Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, drawing him backwards. Dean turns to meet him, stepping away. Cas isn't all that far off. He's laughing. They fall out of the car together, right in front of _Woodrow Antiquities_ and _Thank You For Your Custom_ and _Half Price._  

There are cracks in the dirt. He hops across, and Dean does, too - and Castiel just looks up. Just like that, looks up. Stops still. Silent. His neck's arched back, so that you can see all the tendons in it. 

Dean watches him. 

 _Look,_ Castiel says. _Can you see it?_ And Dean shakes his head, and Castiel smiles, gummy lips parting. _Look again,_ he says, _closer._

Dean cranes his neck back. _Blue,_ he says, and Castiel nods, and takes hold of his hand. 

 _Blue,_ Cas says. _All of it._

 _Magic,_ Dean says. 

 _Magic,_ Cas says. 

Dean stamps out the dust in his boots, and nods. He sniggers. Castiel rolls his eyes. The wind whistles. 

 _C'mon,_ Dean says; Castiel rests his head against Dean's shoulder; he's a warm press. _Would you look at that?_

Castiel's eyes narrow. _What?_

Dean smiles. _You._ The ground is cracked and sagging. Dean opens up the car door, and slides inside. Castiel follows him, one hand resting on his shoulder. 

 

**I**

  

_June 24, 1979 - Kansas, USA._

 

Castiel is eighty two, and there is a storm.

Thunder crashes; lightning flashes. Water falls upon the roof of the house, drip-drip-dripping down - tumbling against the glass in thick, hard sheets. The covers stifle, and burn - soaked with sweat, they cling to his body as he tosses and and turns.

It's the kind of storm that can shake a house from end to end. It quickens the heart - lights up the wall, in flash after blinding flash. It's just bright enough that he can't stand to watch. As he blinks, indents are seared into his eyelids and the ledge.

It sounds as though a blanket is being folded - a flash, a flash, a rumble, a rumble, a rumble, a roar, whipping all of the air away. Gun-shot sharp and just as metallic. A bird, cooing - a whistling; it rises, it gutters, it swoops, it howls. Raindrops patter down the pane - _drip-drap, drip-drap_ , to the left, to the right.

(He doesn't yell. He gasps. He clings to the sheets with crooked fingers, and purses his lips, and waits.)

A colossal rumbling. The rain grows heavier, until Castiel can barely hear. The flashes burn. The sky is a purple - plum, almost. The rainfall intensifies, rolling along roof and walls in thick, syrupy sheets, louder and louder, until the roof concaves and the water rushes in, pushing through the tiles, cracking and blistering; there are four flashes - the rumble, the rain; the drainpipe struggles; the flash -

It's hot. Castiel can't sleep. So he gets up, and crosses to the window. The curtains are spread apart. He tears it open. The yard stretches out before him: disproportionately long, compared to the house itself. Out in front, Castiel can still make out the flowers.

Softening. A flash. A flash. Softening. The edge of the sky is orange, and yellow. Castiel can see it, over bird feeder and bush. Yellow and orange clouds; second, moment-long bursts of everything.

This is what, Castiel imagines, it must feel like to die. It is the same kind of fear. Lying on the ground, in a puddle of mud, and feeling your breath catch on your throat. A lead weight in your chest, and ration packs, and red cigarette cases. 

Wisteria blinks back at him, from the wall; its fronds spread outwards, coating everything. Even through the hot balm of summer, and the wetness on his flesh, Castiel can smell it - soak in it. The flash - left - above him - left - left - right - front - they meander. Greyness among clouds.

 

_Wisteria. Steadfast._

 

They're tall - they were cuttings, when he planted them. Castiel's eyes are sore. The downpour has almost stopped, now. The sheet is lifted - a mumble, a grumble, farther away than here. Somewhere, something - a bird? - cries out. There are only the echoes, and the flashes, and the light. It is as though, for a moment, he does not exist.

 

_Thing about wisteria, is that they dry out quick - especially in soil like this. You've gotta keep topping 'em up with water, or else they'll die. Simple as that. They're not the kinda plant you can just leave alone - you've gotta look after them, care for them. Think you can do that Cas?_

 

They take up the entire wall, now. Castiel can taste copper. The cloud is breaking - great, dusk-golden tears in the sky's fabric seams, the moon peeking through. Peeking and peeping and peeling past. He can scarcely hear the thunder. The birds - bird? - yells. His neck cricks.

Blue, grey, black - illuminated, reversed. Castiel's feet ache. The air is sweet. The trees are shadows, as ever. Their leaves are still.

Castiel pulls the curtains shut. He goes back to bed, the floorboards creaking beneath him; he treads carefully, stepping softly, taking the time to be quiet. Blinking the droplets from his eyes, he slides beneath the covers - he's shivering, and their warmth is a balm. Sealing him in. Sardines in a tin. Roses out the window. All that jazz.

Far left - far away. Overhead. Too far to touch. Bed. Night-stand. Carpet. The room creaks. Pillows. Sheets. Blankets. Pitter. Patter. Drop. Castiel puts his palms together. They are dry. His ears ring. Against the pillow, his breath sounds like thunder.

 

.

 

_June 15, 1913 - Hertfordshire, England._

 

Castiel is sixteen, and his hands are stained with mud. There is a row of pots, against the back wall of the house. They stand in size order - small, to medium, to large. Red, and red, and brown. The largest one is a sort of mud-colour. They weren't terribly expensive. They contain tomato seeds, among other things. Tomatoes are likely to grow.

"Know what this is?" the man asks.

Castiel emerges from his book, shaking his head - in his mind, he's lost among the flames of battle, beneath the hardened sun and the iron skies. It is easy to do. Anybody could.

 _Anybody_ smirks at him. 

"Should I?" Castiel replies. "They all look the same."

Dean presses a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. Castiel raises his brows; he's seen enough of this to know Dean's faking, without having to stare too much. It is not difficult.

"I'm injured, Cas Novak. Just be glad you weren't born a gardener. You'd be out on the street, the disgrace of your family."

"Well, seeing as I have the good fortune not to be homeless, perhaps you could fill the monumental gap in my knowledge?" Dean grins at that, chest rising with chuckles. Castiel's stomach does a little flip - he forces it down.

"This," Dean says, holding the flower between his fingertips, "is a bloom of larkspur. It means _beautiful spirit_." Castiel leans forward, placing his book down on the grass - despite himself, he's intrigued. 

"Beautiful spirit?" Castiel says, staring. The purple petals shine back at him, fragile in the morning sun. "It just looks like a plant." Dean laughs, again. The sleeves of his shirt are stained green, as he leans back on his elbows, eyes flying around.

"You'd better believe it."

"What does this one mean?" Castiel casts his eyes around - finding what he's looking for, he plucks a flower from beneath the grass stems, holding it aloft in triumph. "I can't remember."

"Thought that book of yours told you everything. Especially 'bout tomatoes."

Castiel scowls, punching Dean's shoulder softly, as he mutters, "Very funny."

Dean reels back, clutching his upper arm. His fingers curl around, leaving indents in fabric. Castiel flinches, before recognising the gag.

"Argh!" Dean cries, with his best affectation of Castiel's voice. It's not very good. "How dare you molest me, man!"

"The only molesting being done here is mental - as in, your refusal to give me a simple answer." Retrieving his book, Castiel hesitates before slipping the daisy into the groove. It fits snugly between two pages, yellow against stark white. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I will return to a more worthwhile pursuit."

Forcing his gaze down, he feels Dean's linger on him - a brand, on his forehead. His skin tingles, as words slip and slide. Castiel's cheeks grow red - and really, it's not such a warm day. It is exceptionally difficult to concentrate on reading, when a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile is watching you do so. Castiel ought to know this by now.

"And so Hades returned to the underworld, and summoned forth his chariot - and forwards he rode, as the water nymphs scattered among the branches. Never knew you were into nymphs." Castiel snaps the book shut, colouring furiously. Dean smirks beguilingly. He is _always_ beguiling. "Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers, Cas."

"It's a myth, Dean. I don't expect you to have read it."

"Hey, don't be so quick to judge. I've heard of this."

Castiel looks up in time to see Dean lounge back. "You have?" he asks, curious. 

"Hell, yeah. I know it. Hades takes Persephone down to the underworld, 'cause he falls in love with her. But when they get there, her mother - " 

"Demeter," Castiel interjects. Dean raises his eyes to the sky; Castiel follows his gaze, up to the grey-studded clouds, tinged with pink around their fading edges.

"Demeter. Fine. So, she gets upset, 'cause she's lost her daughter, and starts making it winter. Goddess of the harvest, and all that. Nothing grows, nothing lives, everything dies. People start praying for summer again, right?" Dean shoots a glance across at him, for confirmation. His lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.

"Yes," Castiel replies, "but Zeus, Hades' brother, can't think of a way to get her back. He's the King of the Gods - oh, you knew that. Sorry. Go on."

"But he uses the pomegranates, doesn't he? Persephone's eaten six pomegranate seeds. So, six months in Hell with everybody's favourite mope, and six months top-side, with her...Demeter, and the nude nymphs. All's well and good with the world. Happily ever after."

"Is it?" A cloud moves away from the sun; Castiel follows it progress across the sky with his eyes, tracking it over the blue. "I always thought it was sad."

"Nah. Hades wasn't such a bad guy - seemed pretty nice, all told. Dark and broody, sure, but he looked after her. That's what you've got to do. You look after the people you care about."

Castiel turns his gaze to Dean - it gravitates back, as it always does; a moth to a flame, some may say. Dean smiles easily. 

"It's just a story," Castiel comments, staring, "it isn't true. It didn't happen."

"Yeah?" Dean reaches out, placing a hand on his shoulder. Castiel shivers, feeling the warm points of contact - scars, he thinks. Dean looks at him, with green eyes, and murmurs, breath unseasonably warm. "Who's to say?"

"I do," Castiel says.

Dean chuckles. "Yeah, Mr Tomatoes. Pack it in."

"What - oh. I forget. Another." Castiel closes his eyes. "Tell me some more. You must know of them." 

"Do we really have to do this?"

Castiel nods.

Dean rolls onto his back, and puts his hands behind his head. He counts off on his fingers. He sighs. "Okay, so, there's the one 'bout Hercules and Cerberus - " 

"I know that." 

"Figures." Dean rubs a hand over his brow. "Sheesh, this is toasty." 

"I'm not fanning you," Castiel says, and Dean grimaces. 

 

.

 

_June 24, 1979_

 

Castiel tends to his wisteria - cutting and pruning, just a little, taking snippets, placing them to one side. His knees ache - and he used to be able to do this so quickly, without anyone's help at all. He grits his teeth. He plants. The roses grow. Time passes.

On the way back, hoisting his tools like weapons, he passes a patch of purple larkspur. He moves round a puddle, avoiding it entirely, and returns to safety.

"Beautiful spirit," he tells them. "You'll grow, little ones. Wait and see. It's only a matter of time, now. Before you know it, you'll be just as large as all the others. And then, when you are, I'll say that I told you so."

Castiel passes inside, and makes some tea. The kettle hisses as it boils - he takes out two cups (one red, one white), fumbling with outdoor shoes, and then places one back. Force of habit. Having prepared his drink, the dragon clicks off, lying in wait for its next victim. As he goes, bearing his mug, Castiel pats its side.

Sitting down at the table, he pulls out his chair. It squeaks; dust clouds hover by, winding and pluming, petals unfurling in the sun. It is, Castiel thinks, beautiful - in a strange kind of way, of course. What isn't, nowadays? Everything's different, everything's changed. It's evolution - survival of the fittest, on a different stage. 

Today, however - today, he doesn't know what he feels. He doesn't know what he thinks. Looking up at the wall, Castiel smiles at the sketch. Green eyes gleam back at him, all life and light and youth and hope - hope for acceptance, hope for a better tomorrow, or something like it. _Why shouldn't we be different?_

And why shouldn't they, after all? At least here, there's no one to stop them. There's nothing to stop for. "Dean," Castiel murmurs - it rolls off his tongue, honey-like, coating his teeth. It's heavy on his lips; just like the layer of frost, congealing on the glass. Isn't it supposed to be flower-time, now? Winter's been and gone.

"Just wait and see, little ones," he informs the roses, taking a sip of his tea. He can barely see them through the fog. Castiel sneezes. 

 

.

 

They sit by the water, as it rolls on in - except there's no way it can roll, because it's in a hollow. and the wind's too slight. Castiel can tell it's a dream of course; he can't feel his feet, can't feel the heat of the afternoon sun. Still, though, it's a pleasant dream - so, he sits, and does his level best to enjoy it.

 _You know in that story?_ Castiel lies back against the white sand (cloying, sticking to his skin. Dean smiles at him; his hands are curled together, playing over a stone, fingertips dancing. They create rainbows. _The one about Hades._

_Persephone, you mean. It's her tale, really. She just doesn't get a good part in it._

In the background, lightning flashes. Odd, on such a perfect day, that there would be a storm.

 _Yeah. That one._ Dean stands, straightening up. The light shimmers on his bare back; and it's just another part of the sand, as Castiel takes his hand. Dean leads him down into the water - and Castiel wishes he could sense the coolness, push the wet hair back from Dean's forehead, take him for his own - but he can't, so he doesn't. 

_What do you need to know about it?_

_Nothing. I just wanted to see if you remembered._

Castiel looks across at Dean - his Dean - and fights down a gulp, a swallow, a laugh. The pool boils.

 _How could I forget?_ he says - and then the water's rising up, and pond-weed drags him down, and he goes under, and the bombs blast, and the shells shake, and run run run get out come on come on move - and his lungs fill with imaginary liquid, imaginary mud (choking, gasping, flailing) and he wakes, the image of Dean's shock burning holes in his eyelids, and Dean's blood, and Dean's eyes open, and Dean's leg bent backwards behind him.

 

.

 

_July 28, 1915_

 

Castiel is eighteen, tomorrow.

They're sitting around the table - Mother, Father, Anna. Dean is sprawled against the back counter; he's listening, even if he isn't looking. He always has to be so quiet around the family; he's only in here on sufferance, but is ever considerate. (Somebody has to do it, after all.) There are dirt stains on the knees of his trousers. It's all come down to this, in the end. It's what it's all comes down to.

Mother makes idle conversation, chattering away to Father - "And honestly, I told her that it's entirely the right thing, but would she listen? Quite frankly, I don't think she's going to be making her boys enlist at all. It isn't proper, you know - it just isn't good. And the way she dresses - oh!" Mother flaps a hand at herself, outraged; over the top of his newspaper, Father gazes levelly.

"Yes. Quite." He returns to the sanctity of her paper, and Mother continues her relentless monologue. Castiel takes a slice of his beef, popping it into his mouth; but there's still time, if he can be brave enough. He has an opportunity - and he must reach out and grasp it, if success is to be obtained.

"I don't want to fight. I want to be a gardener."

That's all it would take - eleven little words, one after the other. Castiel's counted them so many times, in the privacy of his room, under the cover of darkness - practised them over and over to Dean, sitting on the mattress, with the ceiling light swinging above them, lost in a storm.

Dean nods at him.

_Come on, Cas. The truth. Tell them the truth._

And he could - he should. He's a man, now - and Dean would do it (it's what Dean would do, it's the good thing to do). It's what Dean would do - it's the good thing to do, the only good thing left to him. The truth. He could change things. He should.

"Could you pass the peas, Castiel?" Anna gleams at him, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear - and suddenly, the cocoon is broken; spider-strands falling away, leaving nothing behind. He looks at Dean - looks, harder than he's ever done before - and Dean looks right back, pink lips parted, everything he's ever wanted right in front of his eyes.

"Yes," Castiel says, and does. He hears footsteps; clicking; banging. When he looks up, Dean is gone. (His words wouldn't have changed anything, anyway.) Castiel isn't surprised.

As he eats, he finds that the food sticks. It's not pleasant.

 

.

 

_June 25, 1979_

 

Castiel walks down into the convenience store, feet squeaking on tiles. In the background, tinny over the crackling speakers, music plays - it's comforting, somehow. Whatever happens, the music lives on, because they'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when...but it isn't the right track, and it doesn't have the right words - and anyway, that tune was from the wrong war. Not his war. Not his time.

The speakers crackle. He cannot make out all the words.

The girl behind the counter smiles at him. She looks like Anna, in an odd kind of way - all hair and teeth and long legs. Anna was slighter, though; one gust of breeze could've blown her away. The girl's name-tag reads _Charlie - happy to help!_. 

There's a man in the corner, mopping the floor; bangs fall down over his eyes, as he hums along to the song - something about a girl not being his, and wanting to hold her, and nothing coming between them in the end. 

Charlie packs his food into a bag; a tin of beans, a jar of jam. He gets bread, too, and slices of ham and tubs of margarine and four bottles of water and and two boxes of tea bags two bottles of beer, and (supposedly) melt-in-the-mouth cheese and a box of Jacob's Biscuits USA. His hands ache just looking at it all.  

"What happens to people when they die, Charlie?"

The girl starts, surprised - of course she is. Castiel can make out her hips, beneath her shirt. It's long. It's red.

"I, err...I guess they just, I don't know, go."

"That's what I thought, too. But there must be somewhere, mustn't there? We can't just lose them." 

"I...I...that'll be forty nine dollars seventy, please."

Castiel frowns. "For those?"

The girl blows through her teeth, smiling; leaning forward conspiratorially across the counter conspiratorially, all earlier unease washed away (rain, tides, pools - up to your thighs, crawling across rifles, get out get out get out), and whispers:

"I know. It's criminal. If I had another job, I'd file a complaint."

"You can do that?" Castiel asks, vaguely intrigued. "It seems fair, I suppose." There's a badge, on Charlie's lapel. Squinting, Castiel can make out the words. "Role-playing Association?"

The floor-tiles are grey. Behind Charlie's head, there is a sign. In black block lettering, it says: _HURRY! OFFER ENDS SOON!_ It doesn't specify which offer, or how soon. It is, in Castiel's opinion, a terrible inconsistency.

"What?" Charlie asks, before glancing down at herself. "Oh, yeah. RPA. They are my handmaidens, and I am their Queen. We don't do conventionality." Castiel tilts his head to one side. "You didn't get a word of that, did you?"

Behind them, he hears the cleaner moving away, padding softly into the other room; the mop drags on the floor, leaving traces in its wake.

"No," Castiel replies, honestly, "but then again, I'm hardly in touch. Would you mind explaining it to me?"

The girl grins at him. Castiel isn't sure what's so funny.

"Oh," she says, "I can do better." Fumbling in her bag, she pulls out a card, handing it to him - and Castiel can't figure out why he'd possibly need one, but accepts it anyway, staring at it. It's an address, he thinks, written in curling font - and there's that word again, RPA. "Come along. We're in need of more members. I could use another elf."

Castiel stares. That seems to be the safest option; Charlie's a firework, potentially about to explode. It's best to take precautions, with these kinds of things. "It's the '70s, dude! You've gotta get with the times," the girl informs him, "it isn't D&D, or anything. And besides, I think you'd make a good henchman. It's the blue-eyed thing, you know? Very chic."

 _HURRY! OFFER ENDS SOON!_ the sign says. Underneath that, there is a picture of a can of baked beans. Surely, it must have some significance.

There's a loud snort. Castiel assumes it comes from the cleaner.

"I'll think about it," Castiel says - and flees, as fast as his aching legs can carry him.

Halfway down the street, he realises he's forgotten his shopping.

Charlie hands it to him at the door, smiling with such _charm_. 

 

.

 

He knew Uriel the least, out of all of them. Looking back, he can say that dispassionately - out of all of his friends (if they could be called that, these men he had been thrown towards as he plunged), Uriel was the one he never really connected with. He was a snake. Set apart.

They snuck him sideways glances. It was simply a fact, back then. Uriel was different, and brusque, and dark, and that was the way it was. He was a Negro, like Joshua. Just like Joshua.

They were an odd group, anyway - bonded by the walls of the trenches, a scattering of men, serving side by side. They weren't doing much good; forced together to hold fort, in preparation for being carted off. Castiel was lucky, in a way. They were all lucky, in a way. They were together - and that, at the bare bones of the matter, was what counted.

That was the one good thing about war; it brought men close, in the worst possible fashion. Frightened lambs will flock together - sheep in a pen, butting against the sides, desperate for freedom. He never expected fear to lead where it did, of course - but in some ways, he does feel responsible. Of course he does. 

 

.

 

Back at home, he skips dinner, and opts instead to sit on his bed, looking out over the plants.

A patch of daisies has sprouted by the wisteria; just a few of them, peeping up at the sun: _leucanthemum vulgare_. Castiel imagines their heads turning; they're like sunflowers.

 

.

 

_October 3, 1915_

 

They're all packed together, sardines in a boxed-up tin - and isn't that an appropriate sentiment, because he can't breathe. To his right, Gabriel turns his head. Their eyes meet - Castiel smiles, as much as he can. Time makes it easier; but the fear never fades. It never can. It sticks, and clings on. Gabriel's eyes hold his. 

On his other side, he can feel Lucifer panting - fast breaths, against his skin. Turning away from Gabriel, Castiel places a hand on Lucifer's back. The other man barely acknowledges him, staring upwards - and Castiel looks, too. 

"Well," Gabriel says, "I'll see you all on the other side, then." 

Lucifer's jaw twitches. "Wait up for me," he says. 

"Oh, you can guarantee it." Gabriel shoves his shoulder, and then Michael's yelling something, and Gabriel says, "We've got to go, we - " But it's drowned out by the movement, feet on ladders on mud, and Castiel's slipping. He half-falls backwards, but he grips on. He gets his hands scraped. 

 

.

 

_June 25, 1979_

 

"Daisies are for innocence," Castiel tells the tiles, voice holding firm, "I don't want poppies."

So saying, he shuffles to the wall, switches off the light, and climbs into bed. It's cold - too cold, for this time of year.

Beneath the blankets, Castiel finds himself shivering. He's going to have to turn the heating on, in the morning. Dreadful waste of money, but what can you do? Certainly not freeze to death.

It's cold. He's cold. 

"Hey there, Cassy," the man says, and Castiel smiles. "Castiel? Are you there? Home?"

"Yes," Castiel says, "yes, yes, yes." And smiles again.   

 

.

 

_Lily-of-the-Valley_

 

_A native of Asia and Europe. The flowering season is May and June. It is both sweet-smelling and highly poisoned; it isn't one to take lightly, despite its unassuming appearance._

_Legend has it that this flower sprang from Eve's tears, as she was flung from the Garden of Eden. These plants symbolise humility, happiness, and love's good fortune. They are said to protect gardens from evil spirits._


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

 

_Fact:_

_Primulus plants mainly bloom in the spring time; polyanthus plants, however, bloom from winter to early spring. After they have finished flowering, you must lift and divide them._

_._

 

_January 13, 1980 - Kansas, USA._

 

In order to make plants grow, you need five elements: moisture, light, heat, space and nourishment. With these, and a dash of perseverance, you can coax anything out of the ground.

Folks were never patient with it, when Dean was around - but you have to be. It's kinda essential. A tomato isn't just going to spring up its vine with no care at all. You need to wait it out, and whisper sweet nothings - and, eventually, you'll get yourself some big, juicy tomatoes, or carrots, or whatever. That's all there is to it.

Of course, in reality, it's a lot more complicated than that. There are growing aids and fertilisers, and types of string and types of pole, and separating the plants out, and making sure they're the right distance apart, and facing in the correct direction, and not overlapping, and that their roots aren't going to tangle. That's the name of the game. _Patience_.

When he first got the job, he'd been so damn pleased. God knows how he'd been lucky. New life, new start, new home - new everything, for Sammy. It was all gonna be so brilliant. Patience. Good things take time. _Patience_.

 

.

 

_January 13, 1979 - Kansas, USA._

 

Dean is twenty four years old. He's wearing a black leather jacket, and jeans and sneakers. The back of his neck itches. 

"Mr Winchester, the answer is no."

Red walls, and a yellow lamp. There's music playing, somewhere far away.

(The meeting is a disaster.)

"I'm sorry that you've put so much effort, into...your little project. But the fact is, this town is not in need of what you claim it requires. Your speech was impassioned. Your idea was fair. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

(Apparently, the plans are 'too controversial'. Nobody else wants a park, in the middle of town. It's a ridiculous notion. They have the cinema, and the arcade, and somebody's petitioning for a bowling alley. Why would they need anything else?)

Papers are shuffled. Naomi's fingernails click, against the table. "Will that be all?" she finishes.

(Dean sits through it, and drinks his coffee, Sam shuffling at his side, and resists the urge to scream.)

Dean swallows. Nods. "Yeah."

"Thanks," Sam grinds out. It sounds like it pains him. "But if you'd take a second to look at Dean - my brother's proposal, you'd realise that it was actually about improving the town. And not just adding another tourist attraction nobody's ever going to visit." 

Naomi's lipstick has stained her teeth. 

"And," Sam continues, rising to his feet, brown suede shoes clicking on the floor, "you'd also realise how much of a mess this place is. I mean, seriously? The arcade? It sucks!"

"Yeah," Dean chimes in, "only losers go there! Get real!"

"Another thing." Sam jabs his finger in Naomi's face. It's red. She looks as though she's about to combust. "This could seriously enrich the lives of hundreds of occupants of this town. More than a - a mini-bowling alley, right?" 

Naomi only blinks once. She has bug-eyes. 

 

.

 

Five minutes later, they're out on the street, having just been thrown from the building. Dean lands heavily, pulling himself to his feet. Sam falls onto his hands and knees, more lightly - and if that's annoying, it's consumed by shit shit shit, and grinning, and the rather large, rather beefy security guard advancing towards them. He has a broken nose.

"Holy shit!" Dean gasps out - and then Sam's grabbing his arm, and they're sprinting away, heads tipped back in laughter. The road flashes by, underneath them, a flurry of black and grey and yellow parking lines. A kid's skating towards them - Sam dives to one side, and Dean to the other.

Together, they collapse back against the alley wall, and breathe.

"Did you see that?" Dean asks. "Did you see her face? Priceless!"

Sam shakes his head. "I dunno, Dean. I shouldn't have - y'know - overreacted. Do you think I - " 

"Messed it up?" Sam nods. Dean whistles. "Dude! That was awesome!"

Sam smiles, tentatively. "Really?"

"Yeah! I ain't seen anything like it!" Dean fist-pumps the air. "Sweetest thing!"

"You do realise you ain't gettin' your park, right?"

The air goes out of Dean's chest, a little. His back scrapes the brick. Sighing, he slides downwards. "Yeah. Got that."

Sam's palm is heavy, on his shoulder. "It'll work out. You'll see. Something'll come up, and you'll show everyone how good you are."

Dean snorts. "You'd need a miracle," he says. "Hey. Who's up for burgers?"

Apparently, somebody is; Dean ain't surprised.

 

.

 

_January 15, 1980_

 

When Castiel Novak dies, he has a funeral. He is buried in a churchyard, on the edge of town. It doesn't have any hedges, and his gravestone is just the same as everybody else's. 

 

_Castiel Novak_

_Loving brother, son and friend_

_1897 - 1980_

 

That's all there is. 

1897 to 1980. It's a very, very long time.

(Dean read up on this.

Apparently, the average life expectancy for a man born in 1900 was around fifty years. Cas got almost twice that, by Dean's reckoning. A very, very long time.)

Somehow, it doesn't make anything any better at all.

 

.

 

They stand in the garden, afterwards. It's cold; Dean can feel the chill, through his jacket. He pulls it a little closer around him; he zips it up to the collar. Shivers.

Behind him, Sam lays a hand on his shoulder. 

"It's what he would've wanted," Sam says. "He didn't go in for the - flash stuff."

There's a slight stutter, in Sam's voice, and that's not right. Sam laughs, and stutters, when he didn't know him. Not really. You shouldn't be allowed to feel for people you don't know.

Dean nods. "Yeah."

He doesn't say anything more.

There aren't speeches. Charlie tries, but ends up shaking halfway through, and stops. Instead, they eat food Dean can't taste, and talk about nothing at all. At some point, Jo brings out the wine. It fizzes, sending bubbles over the edge. It's vintage, apparently, so they've all gotta enjoy it.

Dean smiles. 

 

.

 

_January 13, 1979_

 

"Are you going out?" Sam asks.

Dean nods. "Yeah. Thought I'd blow off some steam."

Sam nods. "Guess so."

Dean picks up his burger, and takes a bite out of it. Some of the tomato sauce stains his lips. Sam glares at him.

"Jerk," Dean says.

"Bitch," Sam replies, stabbing at a salad leaf. Dean shudders.

"How can you even eat that?"

"Same way you can eat that." Sam points to Dean's plate. Dean blinks downwards.

"What?"

"That's about a billion calories, right there. It'll give you a heart attack."

"Get you. Last time I checked, you didn't have the degree for it."

Sam scowls. "I'm workin'. That's what you wanted, ain't it? Just 'cause I ain't chasing down my dreams, or whatever - "

"Right." Dean skewers an onion ring, and deposits it into his mouth. Sam practically radiates disapproval. Dean makes a great show of not only chewing, but swallowing, too. He rubs his stomach. "Mm. 'Licious."

"You're disgusting."

"And you're a nerd, Avengers. Bet you still read some, under the covers at night."

Sam begins to laugh. "Owch," he says. Then, he leans forward. "Hey. Dean. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have done any more."

"No. I could've. I could've tried harder. It would've gone better, if-"

"Your little brother hadn't sassed your potential backer?"

"What? No!"

Sam sits back, folding his arms across his chest. "Give over, Dean."

"I'm serious." Dean edges forwards, discarding a fry on the end of his fork. Sam doesn't seem to notice. He's looking down at the table-cloth, and picking holes in its edge. "You did good. I couldn't - you were great. Great. But Hell, Sam - you could've got down on your knees and begged her, and she would've said no. It wasn't your fault. You were goddamn brilliant. And if anyone says otherwise, I'll show 'em a thing or two."

Sam's cheeks flush. "God, Dean. Why don't you find some girl to say this shit too?"

Dean smiles. His stomach is empty, all of a sudden.

"Guess I can't find the right one," he replies.

 

.

 

_January 15, 1980_

 

When the champagne bottle is empty, Dean sits on the porch. There's the wisteria, behind him - wisteria floribunda, Cas said, like it meant something. Maybe it did.

Charlie takes hold of his hand, and squeezes it tight.

 

.

 

_January 13, 1979_

 

"There's Jo. She's pretty."

"Yeah. She is, ain't she?" Dean grins up at the sky. The clouds are grey, and heavy. "Just my type."

"Not to mention her personality. That little thing."

Dean waves a hand. "Eh. That don't matter, Sam. You get - a girl, and you love 'em. That's all there is to it."

"Charlie," Sam says. "She's...nice."

"Yeah, but...she ain't...ain't she...y'know..."

Sam nods, chewing on his lip. Dean swallows.

"Hey - how about Lisa? You two dated, right?"

"For a bit," Dean says, trying for nonchalant. Sam wolf-whistles. Dean feels the back of his neck heat. "Hey! Cut it out!"

"For a bit? Dean, she's the sweetest girl in town! What'd you let her go for?"

Dean opens the car door, and slips inside. Peering upwards, he goes for a grin. "Know what they say, Sammy. She just weren't right."

"You'll be tellin' me you're goin' for guys, next," Sam mutters, still chuckling.

"Don't even talk 'bout that. That ain't funny."

"I was only jokin'! Jeez, no need to get your panties in a twist! Unless..."

"Unless what?" The words are sharper than he'd intended. Sam's eyes are wide, and brown. They look like mud.

"Unless...you and Lisa...you're...already _engaged_?" Dean whacks Sam around the head. Sam laughs. "That was so fast! Smooth!" 

 

.

 

_January 15, 1980_

 

He stays in the house, after everyone's gone home. Sam asks him to come back, but Dean says no - he wants to stick around, for a little while. Sam nods, and goes. Charlie takes his arm, as they walk away; she leans on him. As they walk away, Jo holds her hand, looping their pinkies together.

That's it.

There's no grand ceremony; no remembrance. Just three people, walking down a road, who didn't really know him at all. Not like Dean did. Not completely.

"Well, Cas," he says, "looks like it's just you and me, now." Lifting up his glass, he toasts the sky. "Ain't that something?"

 

.

 

_January 13, 1979_

 

Dean can feel the cold through his jacket. He rubs at his arms, but there are still pins and needles all over the place. He can barely feel his fingers, never mind his wrists.

"How'd you feel 'bout - settin' up shop here, for a little while? I mean, we've got your job, we've got the flat-"

Sam pushes his shoulder, softly. "You've got Lisa..." 

Dean backs up. "Shut your trap, we went out once - " 

"That's what they all say - " 

"Are you gonna answer, or not?"

Sam leans back against the hood, as Dean fumbles with the lock. "It wasn't meant to be permanent, right?"

Dean looks at the dashboard."Right."

"And you wanna stay?"

Dean opens the car door.

"Yeah," he says. "Maybe - maybe it's time we settled down, y'know? Took a rest. Spent some time together."

Sam nods. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

He opens the other door, and he gets inside the car. Dean follows. Sam taps around in his pockets.

"What's up with the weather?" he says. "I can't feel my feet."

Dean snorts. "Try wiggling your toes."

Sam gives him a Look. Dean shoots a grin back.

 

**III**

 

_April 2, 1905_

 

Joshua is the gardener, and Castiel loves him. He loves him with all of his heart; every single piece that is capable of loving.

"These," Joshua says, "are pansies. You've got to plant them six to eight inches apart. See these ones? They're growing too close. I got 'em too close. I did six."

Joshua shakes his head, and pokes a finger into the soil. "Good soil," he says. "Heavy moisture. That's what you should need. Got that, and you're set."

Castiel claps his hands, and laughs.

Joshua puts his finger to his lips, and reaches out, and plucks a petal from one of them. It's pink.

"Ssh," he says, in a whisper.

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

When Castiel goes off to war, he's still eighteen. The recruitment officer didn't know that; looked him up and down, with his thick chest and his height, and just...nodded. That was it. A nod. On the drive down to the station, he stares out of the window, watching the house - high walls, high towers. A prison, perhaps; but it contains his family, such as it is.

The Second Hertfordshire Volunteer Regiment No. 4 Company welcomes him. The man behind the desk had told him so. He had a moustache, and bags underneath his eyes. They were off to fight the Boches, he said. Those Germans were being awful mean to poor old Belgium, and if we don't stop 'em, son, it'll be our turn soon. 

The man had beady little bug eyes, with crow's feet around him. His moustache bristled. He slapped his own chest once. "Our turn," he said again. "And you don't want that, do you, son?" 

And no, sir, he did not - and that seemed to be the right answer, because the man went off to talk to somebody else. 

Anna's hand fits his own perfectly. She looks up at him, eyes wide - and she's proud of him, they're all proud of him, and they'll never know he's afraid. He smiles down at her, and squeezes back. Anna rests her head against his shoulder, as Mother fusses and croons, filling the silence. Castiel doesn't speak.

As he boards the train, his family waves to him - and he's doing good, and he's making them proud, no matter what anyone says. Mother hugs him, tight (and keeps on about handkerchiefs and not skipping meals or getting his nice uniform dirty) - and the solider beside him grins, and Castiel flushes, pulling away. The man raises an eyebrow, hair falling over it, and smiles.

Father claps his shoulder, hard - and then pulls him in close. Castiel freezes at the contact - and Father cares, he cares, he cares - and as he steps up, the solider in front (the other soldier), Anna keeps hold of his hand, their fingertips locked together - like she'll never let go, like she'll never let him go.

"Keep safe, Castiel," she murmurs, close to his ear - so no one else can hear. She's wearing little lace gloves, he notices. She wears those for weddings.

"I will," he promises - and he will, he knows he will. How bad can it be out there, anyway?

No matter what Dean says, he's doing good. It's all about nasturtium, isn't it? Patriotism, and the like. Bachelor Buttons for anticipation. Begonias for deep thoughts. Magnolias for dignity.

Dean didn't say if there was a flower for fear.

 

.

 

_July 30, 1915_

 

It's the night before the train - the night before Castiel's manhood, and Dean is calling him a coward. A spineless scumbag, to be exact. 

"I'm sorry," Castiel is saying. "I couldn't disappoint them. I couldn't let them down."

Castiel is tired. He is very, very tired.

"You didn't have to enlist. You could've waited."

"For what, Dean?"

"I don't know, Cas!" And suddenly, Dean's whirling on him, ivy eyes flashing, hands raised - and he's shouting, voice ringing to the rooftops. "You could've waited! You didn't have to haul your ass off to the Western Front!"

"Keep your voice down!" Castiel hisses, glancing around - but no, there's no movement on the stairs. "I'll ended up shouting, and I'll wake someone up!"

"Oh, and that's what you care about, isn't it? Well, why shouldn't you change it? Do something for yourself, for once in your goddamn life!" Dean's turning away from him, towards the back wall. "You don't want your family to know. Well, that's just fine, ain't it?"

"There's nothing to know," Castiel protests, voice rising a degree, "you're not supposed to be here. You're meant to be at home. Why are you still - " 

"And that's where you want me, isn't it? Home." Dean spits out the last word. The way he says it, it could be a curse. It could be. "Maybe I don't have a real home, Castiel. Maybe it's just me, huh?" And Castiel doesn't say anything - what is there to say? "Why shouldn't we make a difference, Cas? Why should we just...just sit around, as...as..."

Dean doesn't finish speaking. He sounds hoarse.

"I...I want you to be safe, Dean. I want you to..." Castiel doesn't get to finish.

"What do you want, Cas? What is it that you want from me?"

Dean's eyes are wide, and desperate, and pleading - and he wants Castiel to show him, show him, show him. He wants to shrug. He wants to scream.

And then Castiel's standing up, bed creaking below him, and crossing the space, and taking hold of Dean's shoulder. He locks his fingers in, tight - and Dean's looking at him, lips parted.

Castiel kisses Dean Winchester. There's a heartbeat of stillness. Silence. Nothing.

Castiel has imagined many kisses. They have involved tongue, and teeth, and the pressure of fingertips beneath his chin, skimming along the line of his throat, lifting his head up. He has not imagined emptiness. A dry taste in the mouth. A pounding in the skull.

 

.

 

_June 24, 1979_

 

The tap drips. 

"Cassy? You there?" 

"You. You're dead." The man drops his kit-bag down, on the floor - it lands with a thunk. In the moonlight, the buttons of his uniform shine. It's clean - like it was when they first went in, fresh and shining. Pure. Which, in itself, is ironic. 

"Can too," the man shoots back, slouching against the wall, "am."

Castiel shakes his head briskly, running his hands through his hair.

"I'm dreaming. It's the only explanation."

"That, or you're going all the way down to Crazy Town."

Castiel smiles, slightly - although there's nothing to smile about.

"My friend, you should know that I'm already there."

The man moves over to the bed - slowly, almost timidly. But he was never timid - not really - and then Castiel's rolling off the bed (as quickly as he can), and grabbing him, holding him closer than close, tighter than tight - and the man's arms lock around his back, pulling him in.

"It's alright. I'm back. We'll work it out."

Shadows skitter up the walls - they creep and crawl, gliding together, bending and blurring. The figure himself, however, remains dark and solid - and Castiel can smell that familiar scent of musk, and the faintest whiff of cordite. Some things you can't shake.

"I missed you," Castiel blurts out, voice (fortunately) muffled, "I missed you, Gabriel." The words scratch against his throat, and his eyes are wet, but he won't think about why. Probably just the rain. Against his chest, Castiel can feel Gabriel's body twitch - feel those arms tighten, as the man's voice grows softer. 

"I missed you too, Cassy," he says.

Castiel opens his mouth, and shuts it. "We can't have everything," he says.

 

.

 

They sit opposite each other, at the table, drinking tea. At least, Castiel drinks - Gabriel fidgets, flurrying from one action to another with familiar intensity. (He never could sit still - polishing buttons, blacking boots. If you piss on them, they soften - another peculiar fact, but a true one, nonetheless.)

One moment, Gabriel's tapping fingers on the table - drumming, drumming, drumming; the next, rubbing circles on his thigh; they next, humming under his breath. Castiel can't make out the tune.

"Where were you?" Castiel sips the liquid. It scalds his throat, as Gabriel flashes a beam in his direction.

"Here and there. Around. Living. I always wanted to travel." Gabriel gazes out of the window; sunlight streams through the window, casting pink shadows on the floor. A few grey clouds remain, scattered along the skyline, dragging the brightness down.

"Is that what you did? Travel?" Gabriel returns his attention to Castiel, expression unidentifiable, eyes oddly soft.

"Didn't you?"

Gabriel's mug is blue, with birds on. Castiel washes it in the sink.

"Is he alive?" Castiel says. "Is Dean alive?" 

"Well," Gabriel says. "Is that any of my business?" 

 

.

 

 _September 4, 1915 -_ _French Flanders, France_

 

The walking, it seems, is endless. Marching, travelling, moving on - hour after hour, day after day, making camp by roadsides. They've got another six miles to go, before they reach the reserve trenches. Castiel's legs ache.

They passed a row of stretches, yesterday. They were being loaded into trucks. The trucks were white, and grey.

Gabriel's got a pack on his back, and is humming - some tune Castiel can't make out, but Lucifer appears to recognise. In a moment, they're both at it, sneaking looks at one another - and Castiel watches, listening to the tune.

In front of them, Zachariah's head whips around.

"Someone cut out that God-awful racket!" He has a voice like knives scraping across a grate.

In response, Gabriel simply begins to whistle, the noise hovering above them. A few steps away from Zachariah, Castiel spots Michael's snigger - and then Castiel joins them, blowing the melody from between his teeth - and the trudge along, through the mud and the crisp morning air, and mutedly sing about kit-bags and worrying and smiles.

 

.

 

_June 25, 1979_

 

Castiel picks the daisies on his patio, stooping down, and places them in a red mug. Gabriel watches, one minute picking his nails, the neck scrutinising the plants, the next peering over Castiel's shoulder. Sometimes, Castiel finds himself sneaking sideways glances at him - just to check if he's actually real, actually there.

The wisteria are beginning to lose their glow.

Sitting on the porch, he lies in the sun, gently wrinkling - and all is well and good with the world, for a little while. That's the best thing about America, Castiel finds; people leave you to yourself, and don't ask any awkward questions. It's a free country, after all.

"You know, Cassy, a little conversation would be nice." Castiel keeps his eyes squeezed shut. "Cas _sy_?" 

"Quiet," he mutters, through gritted teeth, "I'm trying to relax."

"Doing a good job of it. You're so uptight, your bones are poking through your skin." There are hands on his shoulders - teasing hands, working away at the knots; deathly, deathly cold. Castiel freezes. "Cassy, you're right back up again! Just...breathe."

There is silence.

"Did you ever look for him?" Gabriel says.

There's a cough.

Castiel's eyelids peel open; sour grapes, on a fine morning. He blinks. Blinks again. Says: "Charlie."

The girl twists her hands together. She isn't in her uniform, today; she's wearing jeans, and a long shirt. Castiel can't name the style; quite frankly, he'd be ashamed of knowing. Gabriel seems to have taken a stroll. Castiel tries not to deflate.

"Hi." Silence prevails. Faintly, Castiel can hear birdsong, muffled by the roar of traffic. "Quiet out here, isn't it?"

"Yes," he replies, slowly. Silence, again. "Why are you..?" Charlie rubs the back of her neck, feet practically pointing at one another. In another life, perhaps, she might have been a ballerina. Or a French nurse.

"I, um, came to check up on you. I mean, you seemed pretty upset the other day, so-"

"I'm fine."

"Right." Charlie coughs. "Right. Right."

"Right," Castiel agrees. "I don't need any help."

"Yeah, I know, I mean - God, I know - okay. You're coming to the meeting, aren't you?"

"I...I thought about it." Charlie's eyebrow rises. Castiel feels ashamed, although he doesn't entirely know why. "It's not exactly my thing."

"Then what is 'your thing'?" Charlie makes air-quotes around the final two words, with an air of extreme self-righteousness; Castiel scowls at her. How long will this go on for?

"Plants," he shoots back, "flowers are 'my thing', as you put it." Charlie turns, seemingly noticing the garden for the first time. Castiel resists the urge to scream.

"Oh. I mean, cool. That's really, err, cool."

"I understand that it isn't...D&R - " 

"D&D," Charlie corrects, "and we don't use that. We don't follow the consumerist masses. We play our own game."

"Of course you do." Castiel closes his eyes, leaning back. He takes a breath. When he opens them, Charlie hasn't moved. "Is there something you need? I'm an old man. I require rest."

"Crock," Charlie retorts, "you're just fine. You're making excuses."

"Perhaps I am," Castiel grinds out. Charlie's expression turns from indignant, to smug, to coy. Castiel didn't know faces could do that.

"Ah, I see. Can't deal with my incredible wit and charm, huh?"

"That, and your incredible knowledge of gameplay. I'm simply stunned."

"You wouldn't be the only one." And then Charlie's ascending to the porch, beneath the latticed roof, and taking a seat beside him, cross-legged. "I'm sure you'll get over it, in time. I hear they have medication that can help."

"I don't require medication."

"See? What did I tell you. Not sick." Charlie pats his knee, hard - Castiel winces, at the sudden touch more than anything else. "I'm here to spread light and joy, my friend."

"Charity, you mean," Castiel points out, only grousing a little - but he's allowed to grouse. Age brings privileges, and bad temper is one of them. He's allowed to utilise it, isn't he?

"Light. And. Joy." The girl punctuates each word with a hit to his leg. "So, lighten up, and spill the beans."

"Spill my beans? That sounds inappropriate," Castiel comments, feeling a musk of bemusion settle around his very being, "and not entirely sanitary."

Charlie's body shakes as she laughs; her hair curls at the tips, although it was probably that way before. It gleams, as she gets out, past her giggles: "I meant you...your name. What's your name?"

"Castiel. Castiel Novak."

"Charlie Bradbury," she replies, "but you know my first name, right?"

"How could I not?" Charlie grins at him, gamer's badge shining proudly in the sunlight; a beacon, over a dowdy top.

"That's what I like to hear. See you around, Cas."

And with that, she's running - hopping onto her bike, and pedalling away, legs blurring in the midday heat.

She faces gradually away, over the crest of the hill. At the top of the ascent, Charlie looks back, and waves.

"Oh, brother," Gabriel laughs, "you're in trouble."

"No," Castiel moans, sinking down in the seat.

(Somehow, he thinks it's already happened.)

"Did you ever try?" Gabriel says. "To look for that Winchester boy?" 

Castiel shakes his head. "No," he says. "He didn't want me to." 

 

**IV**

 

_Fact:_

_You must remove the dead heads of flowering bulbs, after they have flowered. This encourages plants to store energy in the bulb, rather than wasting it on seed production._

 

.

 

_January 15, 1980_

 

That night, Dean goes to bed, just like usual. The wisteria rustle, as he tries to sleep; pulls the covers up over his head, and soaks in the must. They're familiar, now; indented with his form. This was his side, after all. His side of the bed. His.

"Miss you, Cas."

He receives no reply. Dean pulls the covers up over his head. 

 

.

 

_December 22, 1914_

 

"So, what are we doing today, good sir?" Cas chews on his lip. He sits back, hands together on his lap, the chair creaking against his weight. He smiles, slightly.

"I don't know."

Dean snorts. "You don't know? What kind of an answer is that? You're meant to be working me to the bone."

"I don't do that," Castiel says, forehead furrowing. "I don't."

Dean shakes his head, grinning despite himself. "Nah. Not really. I don't bleed that often."

"You don't bleed at all."

Dean holds up his hands. "Got me," he says.

There's a creak, downstairs. The door opens.

 

.

 

_January 16, 1980_

 

Dean wakes, and stretches, and climbs out of bed, and brushes his teeth. He spits in the sink, and goes downstairs - one foot after the other - and rustles around in the fridge, searching from breakfast.

"You know, I was thinking, we could go to the cinema. They're showing something...what was it...Superman? Superman Two. You like that, right?" Dean straightens, milk carton cool in his fist. "But seriously, man. Don't steal my popcorn. That sucks. Hard."

Turning, Dean places it down on the table, and moves to get the glasses. "Honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd say you did it just to get on my nerves - and if that's true, then you're a sneaky son of a gun, Cas Novak."

Pouring out the drinks, Dean takes a slurp of his own, swallowing deeply, dragging it down.

Dean looks up.

"Don't mean I miss you less, though," he tells the wall. "Don't forget that."

 

.

 

_January 16, 1980_

 

The supermarket is pretty quiet, when Dean pushes the door open. There's a couple of old-timers, hanging around the back door.

The seed packets are sitting on the shelf. Dean puts his hand across them. He strokes his fingers from side to side across them.

There's no wisteria floribunda. Charlie's shop will have some.

French marigolds, it says. Moderately fertile, well-drained soil.

Dean buys flying saucers. He eats them on the walk back, one after another. On the road, a car passes him. It looks pretty new - it's green. A Fiat, Dean's pretty sure.

In the back, there's a couple of kids. One of them's got, long blonde hair. It streams out behind her. She's got a head-scarf on, tied tight beneath her chin. There's a guy in there, too; long, dark hair, and sunglasses. His arm's around her shoulders.

As they pass by, the girl waves, and whistles.

Dean blows her a kiss.

 

**V**

 

_July 30, 1915_

 

For a moment, they kiss, tongues and teeth jarring, hands scrabbling.

It's Castiel's first kiss, and it is everything he had ever imagined it would be.

Dean pulls away - pulls back - stares. And it's wrong. Castiel knows it's wrong. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong. It's sinful. It's tarred, and filthy, and ugly - and everything that Dean isn't, with his smattering of freckles, and his wide eyes, and the realisation dawning there.

"Dean," he says.

"What was that?"

Dean's words are quiet, laced with something - something Castiel can't name. Something dark. Something bubbling. Something that makes Castiel's stomach churn, without any logical reason or cause. Something venomous.

Castiel reaches out a hand, taking hold of Den's arm - and for a second, it's just like it always was - but Dean's pulling away, tearing his arm back. Castiel's left holding empty air.

"You're gay. You're a faggot."

"It was never my intention to hurt you."

"Then how do you explain that, huh? Was that just a - a joke to you? Some kinda sick prank?"

Dean's voice is shaking, and Castiel knows what he should do. Nod, go along with it, accept. It would be fine. They could go back to the way they were before, and it would be Dean and Castiel again. Dean and Cas, Cas and Dean. They may as well be the same person - two parts of a whole, filling in the blanks with tree-green eyes. As stereotypical as it comes.

 

_Rhododendrons for beware. Apple blossom for a promise._

 

Castiel shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, Dean. If I could change, I would. I promise you." His voice breaks, a little. "I'm sorry. There's something wrong with me. I understand that."

Downstairs, Anna is sitting below a beech tree, and, most probably, considering whether or not to climb into the branches. In the room next door, Father is sitting at his type-writer, and watching a blank page. In the sitting room, Mother is likely entertaining the possibility of visiting neighbours. Hannah will be working. Hannah will be cooking. Anna will help.

"I could not exist in a world without you," Castiel says.

Dean just looks at him. Just looks - tense and lined and hard. And that's the worst part, really. Castiel can't fight back. He can't change anything. He can't.

In books, it is commonly said that the worst thing that can ever happen is losing the ones you love. Before now, Castiel believed it. But to watch your life crack down the seams - to see it splinter, torn apart - that is worse. It is infinitely, impossibly worse.

"It's - it's-"

"I think you should go," Castiel says. "I do not want your pity."

Dean shakes his head. "We can sort this out. We can fix this."

"Fix me? Is that what you'd call it?"

Dean's hands curl up. "It's," he says. That's all. It's.

"So you've - what? Come to laugh at the faggot?"

The words are hollow to his own ears. It's another dream, he thinks. He's standing there, he thinks, and he's listening to somebody else. He's standing there, he thinks. His chest is being squeezed down, and he is going to be sick, all over Dean's ridiculous boots.

"It's - it ain't - it ain't you."

Everything is hot. Castiel is cold. There are chips of plaster coming off the walls, and books on the shelves, and steam on the windows. The carpet is rolled up, and covered in boot scuffs and shoe marks and the indents of bare feet. The boards are chipped, and there are pages and pages and pages of words and letters, and it is all around Dean's feet.

"Do not dare to think you presume to tell me what I am, and what I am not. You know nothing about me."

"I know everything about you! I don't have a life outside of you! You're - you're-"

"A homosexual."

"No."

"Say it."

"No."

"A homosexual. A sinner. A man who wishes to consort with other men. It isn't spoken of, is it? Where you come from, this, this glorious age - nothing has changed. Nothing. And you long for it."

Dean's hands wave. "Everything's changed!" he says. "I miss it! Yeah! I miss the food, the clothes, my car - I miss - I miss Sam!"

"You miss Lisa," Castiel says.

"Hell, yeah, I miss Lisa!"

"Is she beautiful, Dean? Is that why you fell for her? Did she bring you roses? Did she hold your hand?"

Dean's face falls. "Stop it."

"Or was she just another easy lay? A quick - fuck?"

"Shut up about her! You can't talk about her! You can't talk about any of 'em! Actin' like you're so entitled, and you ain't. This place is fallin' down around your ears, and none of you are doin' a single goddamn thing!"

Dean steps forward. He looks like he wants to punch something, or someone. Castiel can empathise. He wants to shake Dean. He wants to hurt him.

"Was she blonde? Was she ginger? Did she know how to plant? How to nurture? Did she know how to believe in something so fiercely, your heart cannot contain it? Because I do. I know. "

He wants to shove Dean up against the wall, and pin and arm against his throat. He's hot, all over - and he wants to hit, and kick, and hurt.

"It don't matter! I'm dead, Cas! Dead! I crashed my car, and I killed myself! I'm trapped! I'm in Hell, and there's no way out!"

Castiel is hurting. He is hurting everywhere. Everything is heavy. Slow. Useless. His chest is cold.

"Is that what this is, to you?"

"Yes. This is it. I wanna go home. I wanna drink booze, and hit the road, and - and kiss girls! Girls! Like you're s'posed to do!"

"You want to be free," Castiel says. To his own ears, his voice is flat.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I wanna be - free, Cas."

Castiel starts forwards. Their arms are almost touching. From this distance, Dean could stifle him.

"I can't give you that!" he says - cries out.

"Well, maybe if you'd just let me go, I'd be outta this mess!"

There is a stillness. If there was a clock, it would be ticking. If there was a storm, the room would be rocking. If it was a story, there would be something to fill the silence. As it is, there is only the two of them, in an empty room, with their breaths.

"What are you trying to say, Dean?"

Dean's eyes are brilliant. They are green, and black.

They are beautiful. They are the most beautiful eyes Castiel has seen in all his life.

"I'm sayin': Let. Me. Out." Each word is sharp, and crisp. 

Castiel's mouth opens and shuts. "Just - switch off my heart?" he says.

Dean sighs. When he speaks, he speaks slowly. "You don't want me," he says. "You think you do, but you don't."

"What do I want? Hannah? A girl from the village? An easy partner?"

"Is this about Lisa? Don't you call her that, don't you _dare_ \- " 

"She means nothing to me. I can call her anything I want," Castiel spits. He can feel himself doing it.

He has never been so angry in all of his life. The typewriter keys begin to click. Father is typing. Mother is sitting. Hannah is folding. Anna is climbing. Nobody comes to see him. Nobody comes to halt the course.

Dean is in his face, and Dean is close to him, and Dean is angry. It all applies. It all applies to him. It is all a part of something else.

"You do that, we're done. Done. Hear me?"

"In that case," Castiel says, "I accept."

Dean stops. He falters. His lips part. His mouth opens. "What?" he says.

"I release you. If that is what it takes, then I release you. And I hope it brings you call the happiness you can dream of."

Dean is staring at him. His eyes are green. His hands have balled up. His throat is working. He looks as though, for a moment, he is about to cry.

"Go," Castiel says.

There is no thunderbolt. The typewriter is clicking. Nobody is coming.

Dean stares. Reaches out. "Cas," he is saying.

"I do not need you, Dean. I'm not a child."

Dean's jaw tightens, and he does. He crosses the room, and opens the door, and walks through it. He pauses, on the threshold. Looks back, over his shoulder. Once. Just once.

He doesn't look again. He leaves.

Against the glass, Castiel mouths his name.

 

.

 

_October 5, 1915_

 

They share cigarettes; Gabriel passes them around, as they sit in the hollow dug-out, listening to the bangs outside. Castiel takes his gratefully, and inhales - the smoke fills his lungs. He coughs.

Across the circle, Lucifer laughs. "Mind how you go, Cassy. These aren't for the weak-hearted."

Castiel's got an itch, in the back of his thigh. He wants to scratch at it - so he goes for his ankle, and rubs circles upwards, until he feels it. Swallowing, he nips at it - pulls, hard. The louse comes off. Castiel can taste bile.

Balthazar smirks, nibbling on his cigarette - he smokes deeply. Always has, always will. For however long 'always' is. Castiel, meanwhile, looks down. He can feel heat, rising up the back of his neck.

"Shut it," Gabriel says, prodding Lucifer in the side, "or I'll call Michael on you."

"What, Sergeant Mikey?" Lucifer cups his chin with his hands, eyes widening to comic proportions. "He wouldn't hurt little 'ol Luci, now would he?"

A bubble of laughter bursts from between Castiel's lips. Gabriel seems gratified; Uriel simply watches on, unmoving. Castiel takes another drag, fixing his eyes on the floor. His legs burn.

"Alright, you lazy lot," Michael grunts, voice issuing from the entrance, "back to work." Lucifer snaps out a mock-salute. Michael glowers at him - but a hint of a smile tugs at his lips. "Watch it, Morgenstern, or I'll dock your pay for a month."

"Don't dock mine! Dock Gabriel's!"

"Hey!" Gabriel protests, poking Lucifer in the side with the bottom of his bayonet, "Unfair, fag!"

"Get that thing out of my face!" Balthazar flails, batting weakly at the weapon before him. Castiel chuckles. Lucifer's embers glow on the ground, sparkling dully. As Castiel's vision fades, they turn to red points - poppies, for consolation. Dean taught him that.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bang, bang, bang.

Increasing in speed, velocity, magnitude - and rising, rising up - the walls shake - and the embers rise and swirl, growing red, fiery flowers, consuming everything, Sergeant Michael and Balthazar and Lucifer and Gabriel and Uriel and the dug-out and the war and the dirt and the sky, the pitch-black sky -

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

Castiel jolts awake. The ceiling spins, twisting into smears - and he can still hear the booms, the roars, the shrieks. His heart is racing. In the night air, a puff of breath clouds.

The sound is coming from the window.

Groaning, Castiel hauls his frame out of bed, kicking off blankets, and hobbles towards it. He stops - hesitates - grabs the jug from his nightstand. It's not much of a weapon, but it's better than nothing at all - and besides, it's probably just the wind, anyway. So thinking, Castiel pulls open the curtains, and peers through the glass.

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

The morning after Dean's rejection, Castiel packs his bag. He's been putting it off - not quite getting around to it for months. He leaves a space for the uniform he'll be given, pressing and folding clothes - ever so neat, ever so tidy, ever so precise. It's the way he's always been, really. Good little Castiel, the boy with the broken mind.

Stepping back, he takes one last look around - one more, he promises himself, and then he'll go. He'll be able to leave all of it behind, if he just takes one more look. He'll be able to wipe the redness from his eyes, and put on a brave face, and do the Right Thing. He'll be able to leave Dean. He will. (If he just takes one last-)

Everything's familiar - everything's safe and secure. The light streams in through the window; dust motes float in the air.

(Rejection; it's such an ugly word, isn't it? So bitter-sounding.)

Books nestle on the shelves, side by side - adventure stories sit snugly between fairy tales and botanists' guides; soldiers themselves, perhaps.

(Personally, Castiel would prefer for it to be softer.)

Each, in their own way, holds magic.

Smiling slightly, Castiel runs his fingertips down their spines - these old friends, who have brought him so much - so much-

Andromeda, bound to a rock, as the sea serpent approaches; Theseus and the Minotaur, battling together, eternally locked in combat; and - of course - Persephone and Hades, her dark tresses flowing in the gentle breeze, as he gently locked her away.

He finds what he's looking for. 

_The British Boy's Basic Guide to Botany_

_From Around the Globe -_

a birthday present, given when he was twelve years old. The year before it happened. The same year Anna stopped playing outside, and the curtains were drawn. The same year everything changed. It's so close to him, smelling of musk and woodpine and newness - he flips it open, allowing it to fall where it will.

 

_Common Heather (calluna vulgaris)_

_A shrub, it is perennial, and can most commonly be found across Europe and Asia. It thrives in acidic soil, and requires both moderate sunlight and moderate shade. It colonises marshland and heathland alike. They rarely grow above a metre in height, but are recognisable by their bright flowers._

 

Heather. Solitude.

Castiel chokes - he shoves it into a side-pocket, and draws the bag shut. The figure in the mirror appraises him: smart suit with frayed edges, shined shoes with holes in the soles. A good little boy, going off to war, blue tie hung around his neck. A brave boy. An ugly boy. A boy. Not a man. From the doorway, there's a soft noise; Castiel turns.

"It's time, isn't it?"

Anna nods at him; the light from the window falls onto her face, brightening it. "Yes," she says, softly - and then she starts to cough, drawing her handkerchief over her mouth. Castiel's across the room in a heartbeat, holding her shoulders - she doesn't meet his eyes, shaking, quivering, rattling. He imagines he can feel bones, moving where they will, locking and snapping and colliding.

That's all humans are - bags of bones and blood. Heartless.

If only he could convince himself that Dean was, too.

"Anna. Anna, look at me. Anna, you have to look at me. It's alright. I've got you." It's the same mantra he's been repeating for years - in their father's study, after the news first came - by the side of the lake, as they searched for him - and now here, in this frozen moment, as his little sister's ragged spasms draws to a halt.

"I...it's fine, Castiel. I'm fine." She stares up at him, defiant - daring him to believe otherwise.

"You're ill, again."

"I'm fine." A hint of annoyance creeps into her tone - and it's so like Anna, to be openly frustrated at a time like this, that Castiel allows himself to be consoled. They stare at each other, in the quiet of Castiel's room. Downstairs, he can hear voices - murmurs - and they're back in the study, and the news is coming in, and there are no more words. "I'll be fine. It won't come back. I've got something to keep me here."

They embrace, silently - and Castiel breathes in her scent, and feels her auburn mane tickle his cheek, and wraps his arms around her tiny body, and wishes he could believe it.

 

.

 

_Common Daisy (bellis perennis)_

_This species is common to Europe, although grows in many areas around the work, including the Americas and Australasia. This is the stereotypical species of daisy, and the one that most people associate the name with. It is a herbaceous perennial plant, and grows low against the ground. It has leaves that are, in most cases, around an inch long._

_The daisy symbolises innocence and purity. In Victorian times, it was common to pluck the leaves, to determine whether you would be loved or not; 'he loves me, he loves me not', etc. This practice is still in use today._

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

Charlie Bradbury is nothing if not persistent. Castiel will give her that, despite the fact that she appears to have become his personal stalker. Shunting the window upwards, Castiel grits his teeth against the cold - the stars are still out, gleaming overhead. White dots, on a dark canvas, glowing through the night.

"Hey, Mr Novak." By the side of the window, the curtain twitches - Gabriel steps out from it, visible. He presses a finger to his lips.

"What are you doing here?" Castiel asks, oddly outraged. Charlie shrugs, standing a centimetre closer to her bike. In the daytime, all Castiel made out of it was a rush of scarlet - now, it's speckled with moonlight. He thinks he can see stripes down the side, although he isn't certain.

"I...ah...you said you were good with flowers?" Gabriel snorts with laughter, as Castiel snaps the window shut, and turns away - because no. He is not being woken up in the middle of the night - and by a stalker, no less - to confirm that yes, he is good with flowers.

He's almost reached the bed when the tapping starts up again.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang, bang, bang.

Raising his eyeballs heavenward, Castiel returns. He can't not.

"Please refrain from throwing gravel at my property! I'll have you arrested!"

"The cops in this town are stoners! They won't get here for hours - and I can stay all night! I mean, seriously, I've been down here for twenty minutes, and I'm...you know...kinda cold. Can't you just - let me in?"

Charlie makes a show of rubbing her arms. She's wearing a jacket - it looks thin. (Gabriel raises a brow.) There's a pattern of roses, winding up the side.

Lord, please be merciful.

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

In the train station, there is no Dean. Dean isn't there. Castiel's about to leave, and he's alone - and even Anna's stepping back, eyes wide, frail and small - and all Castiel wants to do is hold her throughout it all. Father glows with pride, medals taking up the space where his heart should be, hand over his cane, leg twisted still.

"Father," Castiel says.

"Castiel," Charles says, and looks at him. He's smiling.

Castiel wishes he could say something - anything. Wishes he could be the boy they all wanted. Wishes he could've been right.

There is no way that this can be, of course. He cannot change himself, in the same way that nobody else can change him.

He hoists his kit-bag up onto his shoulder, and smiles at them - Mother (suddenly silent), hand raised in parting - Father, so very pleased, so very interested - and Anna, sweet, little Anna. Mother. Father. Anna. His family. His real family.

The train is cramped, and smells of sawdust. Some men are already seated on the benches. A couple of them are laughing, and trading cigarettes. The soldier from the platform's head is resting against the window.

Castiel lingers by the door, staring out. He dumps his bag onto a seat, and prepares to follow it, as the train pulls away - screeching, a dragon, smoking with fumes. (Castiel never had been the best with words.) The platform soldier doesn't look up.

Outside, Anna's still waving. Castiel waves back; smiles, through the window. The seat is rugged. Castiel passes to the doorway, and closes his hand around it, and pulls it halfway shut. A station guard passes by, holding a flag aloft, brass buttons gleaming.

The whistle is blown. The train begins to rumble - and then, slowly, to creep forwards.

And suddenly, there's a cry - a yell - a holler. (Even now, the words evade him.) Wait!

And Castiel's head whips around - and he runs, sprinting to the very edge doorway, pulling it open wide, half-throwing his body round (stupid and clumsy and ungainly, but fit enough to fight, fit enough to go to war) - and that's when he sees it.

There's a man.

He's running along the platform - arms pumping, legs pounding - and the train's picking up speed, gradually - but the man's getting closer, so close - and Castiel stares out after him - and he dashes past Anna, past Mother and Father - and Anna's watching him - and he dodges around a gaggle of old men, puffing on pipes, almost losing his footing-

And he slows - and he stumbles-

"Dean?" Castiel yells - and Dean's head jerks up. "Dean!"

"Cas!" Dean cries, voice hoarse from exertion, "Cas, I-"

But the noise of the train drowns out his words. There are no more words, even as Dean's lips shape them - but the platform ends, and Castiel cranes his neck, reaching out-

And Dean's running, fast, so fast, through the smoke - and it's Dean, his Dean - and he's come back, he's come back, he's come back - and he's wearing that ridiculous battered jacket, and the trousers with a hole in the knee -that should be patched up - Mother whispered to Father that it wasn't 'wholesome' to have holes in them, after Castiel had played with him - tearing his own.

When Castiel parroted that back, Dean laughed. "Ain't none of their business, is it?"

 

.

 

_September 15, 1913_

 

Sometimes, Castiel wonders how Dean got his accent - his twang, some might call it. Nobody else asks. Nobody cares to know.

"Why don't you try and speak to them, Dean? I told them all about you. They want to meet you."

Dean inches forwards across the bed.

"Don't you do that again, you hear me? I'm happy here. I don't need them spoiling things. Aren't you happy, Cas?"

Castiel rests back onto his arms, putting a little more space between them. He doesn't need another distraction, apart from bronze skin and those eyes.

"Yes," Castiel replies, honestly, "yes, I am."

Dean moves away, apparently victorious.

"There we are, then."

They speak no more about it - and yet, Castiel wonders. The rumours go on, as they always do. After a while, Castiel stops listening.

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

Dean's holding out a hand, stretching - and Castiel extends his own, reaching out, bending down - and he can make it right, and even if Dean will never love him (love him, love him), they can still be brothers - brothers - brothers. He can be Dean Winchester's brother.

Their fingertips brush. Something is forced into Castiel's hand.

The train rounds the corner, and goes away from the station - and still, Castiel reaches out, even as he's tugged inside - because he's watching Dean, yelling his name, struggling against his bonds - and he keeps on fighting, even as Dean grows smaller and smaller, eyes emeralds against the morning light - and then, all of a sudden, he's not there.

In the blink of an eye, the town is lost from sight - and Castiel looks down at his palm, because Dean's disappeared along with it - and he sags against the side of the compartment, breath knocked from him - and someone's reached across, and closed the doors - and the soldier has hands on his shoulders, but he can't feel them - and he uncurls his fingers, and stares at his palm - and laughs, a gasping, breathless laugh, even as the tears form in his eyes.

 

_And so Hades returned to the underworld, and summoned forth his chariot - and forwards he rode, as the water nymphs scattered among the branches._

 

It's a red tulip petal. It's probably been snatched from the garden that morning, in a fever of haste - and Castiel can see Dean now, past the face of his fellow solider (his fellow man) - darting among the rose-bushes, boots pounding on dirt, one after the other. A declaration of love.

Love.

 _He took Persephone, his love - and down they went together, tumbling into the darkness._ _Love was the force._  

Castiel says the words; he says them once, and then twice. And then he goes back into the carriage. 

Inside, the soldier is watching him. Castiel had expected gaping - angry stares, but nobody is looking. The grizzled old bears are still smoking. The odd looks do not come. 

Castiel sits down in front of him. "Looks like we're going a long way," he says.

"Who were you waving to?" the soldier asks, fingers drumming against his knee. "Some girl of yours?"

 

.

 

_Flax (linum usitatissimum)  
_

 

_A native of Europe, this charming perennial signifies home. L. perenne has five-petalled flowers, which are around one and a half inches across; l. narbonese has flowers of a similar size. Sow in March to June for June to September flowering._


	3. Chapter 3

**VI**

 

_Fact:_

_You must plant lily and gladioli bulbs in four inch deep holes, which you must then cover with compost or soil, depending on your preference. This ensures that they have room to grow. You must make certain that the soil has been firmed down, and that there are no air pockets, because these may cause the plants to rot._

 

.

 

_September 11, 1911_

 

Through the crack in the door, Hannah is folding linens. There's a strand of her hair over her eyes. She pushes it around, sometimes, when she's nervous. 

"Don't you think you're taking this flower stuff a bit - seriously? Not that I'm complaining. Good to get you outside." 

Castiel frowns at him. "No. Why?"

Hannah's head turns, slightly, at the sound of Castiel's voice.

"Come on, Cas. You're a kid. Shouldn't you be out...I dunno...playing, or something?" Castiel looks at him. Hard. Dean stares at the floor. "Alright, fine. I'm just saying, it can't be healthy, to stay up here all day. You need company."

"I have company. I have you."

Hannah's eyes close.

"Real company," Dean says, slumping against a pillow; Castiel doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. He's still so young. 

 

.

 

_January 17, 1980_

 

Dean waters the larkspur, and picks the daisies, and puts them in a white mug. He leaves it in the sun, on the windowsill. The beams of light slant down, through the glass; they make the petals glow. It's kinda clichéd, but Dean's willing to work with it. It's the sort of thing Cas would've gone gaga for. He always was sentimental, even when he was too young to know shit about life.

 _Wait,_ Deanthinks. _What? Breathe._

Dean doesn't take cuttings of the wisteria. Cas beat him to it, apparently. He never planted them; kept them in a box, beside his bed. There's a letter in there, too: bound up in string, filled with spidery handwriting shaking up and down the page. Dean hasn't read it.

 

.

 

_January 13, 1979_

 

Dean's still got the taste of salt on his lips, when he leaves the diner. The lights are on, behind them. He's got a small chuckle, building up inside his chest - and he'd be able to let it out, if Sam would just shut his goddamn cake hole.

"They're idiots. You know that. Couldn't tell a good idea from the backs of their asses." Sam's staring at him - full of pity and aching, tender concern. Dean wants to hit him. Or the wall. Or something. Or laugh. "We'll find a way. We always do."

"Get in, Sammy," Dean says, instead. Sam obliges easily, shaking his head. His hand comes up to cover Dean's. 

 

.

 

_January 20, 1980_

 

Dean doesn't go to see Superman Two. It looks good enough - but Batman's his favourite, and anyway, it's not the same if there's no one to steal your snacks.

So, he goes to an empty patch of land, and watches kids cycle along it, wheels clicking on patched-up turf. The sky's blue, up above. There's a patch of daisies, by the edge of the wall. One of the kids is heading for it - and then he spots it, and brakes. His friend almost crashes into him.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"Sorry," the boy mumbles. His head's dipping down. Must get this a lot, Dean thinks.

His friend sighs, and ruffles his hair. He's wearing sneakers, and has a grey and purple satchel. It looks expensive. _Flashy_.

"Don't be like that. 'M just kidding."

The kid looks up. "Really?"

A roll of the eyes; and - "Really. God dang. Just - don't go too slow, alright?"

"God damn," the boy says - mutters, really. 

"Yeah. What I said."

And then they're racing off, speeding to the end of the lane, and around the corner. The daisies remain intact.

Apparently, the plot's available for development.

Dean looks on, for a while, and then returns home.

 

.

 

He doesn't water the flowers. He doesn't plant any new ones. He doesn't go into the back room. He doesn't go into the kitchen. The trowel leans against the wall.

 

.

 

_January 13, 1979_

 

The radio crackles into existence, with a boom and a pop. Dean grins. Running a hand across the dashboard, he feels it thrum - feels it dance.

"Baby," he breathes.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "Still can't believe you messed her up."

Sam shakes his head. "It's called a car phone, Dean. It's useful."

Taking the corner, Dean clicks on his headlights. The road before them is illuminated. "Just be glad I haven't taken it out, already," he says.

In the darkness, something flashes. It could be an animal's eyes, hit by the lights - but it's lighter, somehow. Whiter. Bigger. Like - like a beacon, or a torch-beam. It sears. It hurts Dean's eyes; makes him turn his head away. Whiter. Bigger. Lighter.

"Did you see that?" Dean says.

Disentangling himself from the car phone wire, Sam looks up. "See what?"

The side of the road is black as pitch.

"Nothin'."

For a while, they drive in silence.

"It's the honky tonk women," Dean sings, mutedly. "Gimme, gimme, gimme the honky tonk blues."

Sam rolls his eyes, but murmurs: "I laid a divorcee in New York City. I had to hold up - some kind of a fight."

"Put up! Put up! Jeez, Sammy!" 

"You're missin' your line!" Sam laughs.

"Fine! Gimme, gimme, gimme, the honky tonk blues!" Dean slaps his palms against the steering wheel.

"We're changing," Sam says, and leans across. Dean's laughing hard, now; he bats Sam's hand out of the way. Sam flops backwards, before charging in again. Dean reaches down; unclicks his belt, and presses himself against the far wall.

"Yeah! It's the honky tonk women! Gimme, gimme, gimme, the honky tonk-"

"Just lemme change it! And for cryin' out loud, put your belt back on!"

"No can do, Sammy boy! Gimme, the honky tonk-"

The road before them, in the headlights, looks like ice.

There's a crunch.

"Shit," Sam says - and something gives, beneath the wheel - slides, and slips. Dean grabs onto the wheel, tight. Sam's leaning back, and away, and there's a bang, and another bang. Dean grits his teeth - and the car's moving, actually moving, underneath his hands-

"Woah! Woah!" Sam's yelling.

"Damn it!" Dean cries - and it's stupid, and he's wrestling, and his arms burn. His stomach lurches. The headlights flash, sliding over everything - illuminating trees, and grass, and turf, and asphalt.

And then, all of a sudden, it's over. The road evens out. Dean feels himself exhale. He didn't know he'd been holding it in.

Sam breathes out, shakily. "What the Hell, Dean?"

"I dunno!"

Sam closes his eyes, running a hand down his face. "That," he says, "was way too close."

"Tell me about it," Dean says - and then he starts to giggle. Sam does, too - and they're both sitting there, giggling.

"Man," Sam says. Dean nods along in agreement - reaches across, for the buckle of his belt.

Dean's still smiling when they miss the bend.

 

.

 

That night, Dean Winchester breaks the speed limit, hits a tight corner, skids, and veers off the curb.

The car - a 1967 Black Chevy Impala - hits a patch of rainwater, and flips. The bonnet crumples, on impact with the ground.

Sam Winchester, the eighteen year old passenger, fractures his right leg. He will walk with a limp for four weeks and three days.

His brother is not wearing a seatbelt.

He is thrown through the windshield by the force of the crash, and lands at an angle in the nearby ditch. He suffers three broken ribs, a twisted arm, and a fractured skull. 

When his head hits the ground, Dean Winchester falls into a coma, which lasts for two months, three days, and five hours.

Aside from the broken bonnet, the vehicle is unharmed.

 

**VII**

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

In the kitchen, Charlie wraps her hands around the mug of tea, shivering. "Thanks, Mr N."

"Castiel," the man returns automatically. Charlie's lip quirks.

She smiles, softly. In the fading light, she could almost be Anna.

Castiel's mug shakes, slightly. "It's two o'clock in the morning."

"Uh-huh," the girl responds, gazing into her cup. Inside, the tea swirls. Castiel hovers, unsure whether to sip. He takes a sip of his own drink. It's a little too weak, but it could be worse.

"And?"

In the doorway, Gabriel crosses long arms over his chest, foot tap-tap-tapping. Castiel wonders if he's capable of standing up by himself, or if he relies entirely on supporting surfaces.

"I need help."

Castiel exhales - it's a long, drawn-out breath, that makes Gabriel smirk.

"Unless you're searching for a variety of flora, I highly doubt that I can-"

"I'm in love with a girl." It takes Castiel a moment to process the words, they're blurted out so quickly. Charlie doesn't meet his eyes, looking at the liquid. "I want...I wanted to send her something. I wanted to send her flowers. I...I don't know, I guess...but she...she was kissing this guy." Charlie spits out the last word.

"Ah."

"Yeah." The word is a chuckle, but without mirth. Charlie's shoulders slump. "I figured...I don't know. I mean, it's not right, is it? It's not normal. I wasn't even gonna tell anyone it was me." Charlie doesn't say anything more. Somewhere, Castiel can hear a clock ticking, as he draws up a chair. "Pathetic, isn't it?"

"Well, as a homosexual man, I can hardly judge." Charlie's eyes flicker upwards. Castiel plasters on what he hopes is a smile, but could be a leer. "In my time, it was illegal."

"In most states, it still is. It is here. Welcome to sunny Kansas, home of lesbians in hiding."

"What, in this world of D&R? I wouldn't have believed it." This time, Charlie smiles back. It's a little watery, and weak, but Castiel's prepared to let it pass. "And I do know. I'm trusting your discretion. This is - this is-"

"D&D, old man. Get with the programme."

Gabriel tilts his head to one side, front teeth sliding over his lip. "I like her," he says.

"Drink your tea," Castiel prompts, "it'll get cold."

Over the brim, Charlie nods.

"OK." As the girl obeys, Castiel puts down his cup, meeting Gabriel's level gaze.

Well, Cassy? What are you going to do?

This, Castiel thinks, is probably one of these important ones. They come around much too often.

"And, as to the flowers...I think I could help you there."

The wisteria are fading fast, meanwhile. Castiel still has the daffodil bulbs to dig out, too.

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

As it turns out, the man on the train's name is Gabriel. He tells Castiel that, as they bump along - and Castiel doesn't say much. Just smiles, nodding. He doesn't think he's capable of more. Fortunately, Gabriel doesn't need any encouragement.

He's not an officer, as Castiel first assumed - he's a regular solider, going out to the front for the pay. He's got a girl back home - he lives a few miles out of the village, which is why Castiel hasn't seen him before. His girl's name is Kali - odd, Castiel thinks, but doesn't say - and she's the most beautiful thing in the world, when she's not being a nag.

"She's from the Continent," Gabriel says - puffing it out, like it's something special.

"Which continent?"

"The Continent," Gabriel repeats. "The big one."

Castiel nods. "I've always wanted to travel," he says.

Gabriel "What, you? Handsome young thing? You'd be kissing all the girls."

Castiel can't fight down his blush, no matter how hard he tries. "I'm not-"

"Handsome? Of course you're not," Gabriel soothes, "and I don't have eyes. Relax. I'm hardly going to steal your virtue, maid."

"You're - odd," Castiel says.

"Thank you," Gabriel replies.

They're in the trenches before Gabriel speaks of Kali again.

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

"Woah...woah...woah." Turning on her heel, Charlie surveys the garden. "These weren't here last time! I mean, I only came for a few minutes, but-"

"Yes, they were. You just didn't look for them," Castiel mutters, not expecting a reply. "Now, tell me...what is your...interest like?" From the kitchen, the light still shines - Gabriel wouldn't have appreciated him turning it off, while he was still inside. He never appreciated the warmth of France - the tepid, muggy, stifling nights. America must suit him no better.

"Like? What d'you mean, what's she like?"

At this point, Castiel would happily dig a little hole in the gravel bed, and hop inside for the rest of eternity. Charlie seems honestly baffled.

"Her personality."

The light of realisation dawns, sending veritable sunbeams into the girl's pupils.

Castiel mentally gags.

"Oh."

A slow smile spreads across Charlie's face; her eyes cloud. Castiel nods, trying to battle with his slight sense of alarm.

"Yes. Is she - "

"She's just...she's so nice. I mean, she's not nice-nice; she'd kick my ass around the place, I know that for sure. But she's kind, even through that persona - and I only get to see it sometimes, but when I do...woah. She's...she's...one of a kind, actually. And she's not a dancer, or anything, but she's kinda...graceful, except not. She hangs out with a load of boys, and she could beat them into touch - but when she smiles, it's like the room falls away.

"It's like...sometimes when I watch her, it doesn't seem like she's there. Y'know? Like she's...flickering. I can't explain it. Can't describe it, even, but...like she's there, but she's not. And she's bright. Really, really...bright. Like....like a flash. And you only see it for a second, but...it's there. It's there anyway, even when...even when she isn't."

Monologue complete, Charlie pauses for air - for a moment, she simply smiles, lost in whatever fantasy her words had created within her. "And," Charlie finishes, decisively, "she's got the prettiest eyes I've ever seen. That's her. That's...that's Jo. And - and...yeah. Err...Castiel? You alright?"

 

.

 

_August 1, 1908_

 

Castiel sits with his back to the wall, and watches Joshua work. He's bent double, picking up leaves from the drive. He wears blue dungarees. He doesn't have any gloves.

"Where did you come from, Joshua? Before you were here."

Joshua turns to him, and smiles.

"Somewhere, Mister Cas," he says. "Don't you mind me. I just trim the hedges."

Castiel nods, and smiles.

"Master Castiel," Hannah says. Castiel turns around. Hannah's looking at him. "Your father wants you in, sir."

Hannah is very small, for her age. Her hair's curled up into ringlets.

"Thank you, Hannah," Castiel says. She smiles at him. Stepping forward, she looks at him, and then crouches. Her dress crinkles around her. Their eyes are at the same level. 

"You're a good boy," Hannah says. She straightens his shirt. "There you go. All better." 

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

"Roses," Castiel says, as the world tilts. "You need - ah - roses, Meg. My dear."

Charlie holds onto his hand. "Meg?" she says.

 

.

 

_February 19, 1916_

 

There's a storm coming, in the air. (It isn't a literal storm, of course. With the humidity, those happen often enough.) Balthazar would call it a tempest. 

It's all the men can talk about.

At this moment in time, he doesn't care overmuch for it, because of the itching. It has been two days since his last batch of lice, and he'd been beginning to think he'd last out the week. No such luck.

Verdun, is the whisper. At least, it's what Gabriel whispers to him, huddled beneath an iron griddle. Walking all the way.

"Bloody terrible business," the man on watch says, as they pass him. His name's Stoker, or something like that. He's French. Castiel never bothered to learn. So, he smiles, and passes on.

Gabriel doesn't say a lot, after that. They eat bully beef out of tins. When Gabriel swallows, his throat bobs. He has pink lips. He still doesn't have a moustache. He doesn't look quite as handsome, anymore. He's still relatively stunning - like ink, but blotted. 

 

.

 

_January 4, 1916_

 

The worst part is that nothing grows here. That's all Castiel can think, as he glances around - there's no life. It's a loop - a cycle, Dean would say. Cycles and cycling and bicycles and trains.

The trees have been burnt to the ground, in No Man's Land: only the stumps remain, as bitter reminders of what was lost. Balthazar said that.

When Balthazar first told him there used to be a forest, Castiel had laughed. It was a joke, at the time.

There are, however, a few new recruits; huddled in corners, staring. Some of them can't be more than sixteen; faces puckered with spots, limbs flapping around. Castiel can remember when the walls intimidated him, too. Now, he doesn't think twice about ducking - traversing the length of the duck-boards, and taking up his post; tapping Gabriel on the back, he doesn't expect a response the first time around.

"Gabriel. Gabriel."

"Kali," Gabriel murmurs, head falling to one side, "Kali, don't be mad. Didn't...Lucifer...I'll come back, I promise...'m not...Luce..."

"Gabriel, wake up. It isn't real. None of it's real." Castiel shoves his shoulder, once again. "Gabriel!" Gabriel's eyes fly open - he staggers to his feet, but Castiel pulls him down. "Don't let them see you!" he hisses, before stepping away. "My apologies."

Gabriel shakes his head. "It's alright." Offering up a (belated) smile, he continues: "I shouldn't have fallen asleep. What's happening?"

"It's my turn to take watch." Castiel offers up a chuckle, as Gabriel steps down, pulling his rifle down after him. Castiel puts his own in its place, reaching up, before clambering up after it. "Get some rest. We're cutting wire tonight."

"Over the top tomorrow?" Gabriel asks, as though he doesn't already know. Castiel nods. Gabriel moans half-heartedly in distaste. "Ugh. What's the bloody point of them all? That's what I want to know." Over his shoulder, he beams crookedly at Castiel, eyebrows raised.

"I don't know," Castiel murmurs - but Gabriel's already gone, trudging off down the trench, stooping below the sides of the walls. A few boys follow his progress. Their eyes are leaden.

Castiel can't bear to look at them.

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

"Graceful, did you say?" Castiel doesn't wait for an answer - instead, he progresses directly to the plant, fingertips slipping over the petals.

 

.

 

_February 3, 1912_

 

Dean waits beside him, as his fingertips skim across worn pages. "Still studying?"

"It's important to learn. It will come in useful." Castiel traces the lines of the rose bush; it's a beautiful colour, even though it's yellowing. "Besides, if it wasn't through books, how do you know so much?"

"Experience. I taught myself," Dean replies, with more than a hint of pride, "taught my brother. He never wanted it. Stupid schmuck."

The words are said with overriding fondness. Castiel can't help but wonder what it would be like - to have a man like Dean feel fond of you. For him to want to come home, and sit down beside you, and smoke cigarettes. For him to put the dog out in the evenings, and light the fire.

"What happened to him?"

Dean doesn't answer.

Castiel never asks again. It sits, unsaid, on his chest - a string of ivy, winding around his heart, winding and winding and tightening. Castiel liked the sound of that. He always did have a flair for the melodramatic.

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

"Err, yeah, I guess?" Charlie rubs her arms, taking shelter in the doorway - as well she might. Castiel imagines he can't look the most sane, at this point. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll just - um - go-" Castiel spins around, practically fluid, bursting with energy - and he's fire, and he's alive, and he's glowing.

"You," he says pointedly, jabbing a finger in her direction, "will do no such thing. We're going to find you flowers, and then...then you're going to get your - magic girl."

Castiel soars. It's - unique.

 

.

 

_September 5, 1915_

 

When Castiel encounters shell-shock, it's his first night in the back line trench. His back hurts from the kit. His flask dug into his side, and bruised it.

When they arrived, they stumbled in - half-awake, barely breathing. A plane was going overhead. It had black wings.

They sit together, huddled in the small space - Michael watches over them, tapping shoulders and patting backs. As he passes, he squeezes Castiel's arm. Castiel would like to respond - but by that time, Michael's already gone, and he goes back to his book. In the dim light, he turns away from the others - it wouldn't do for them to see. It's his little secret.  

 

_Thorn apple (datura stramonium)_

_This plant has been used as a herbal medicine for centuries._

 

At the makeshift table, formed from propped-up pieces of wood, Gabriel and Lucifer play cards; shuffling them, passing them over, sending snark back and forth along with them. Gabriel's eyes flash - they always do, when he's in the midst of a debate, where he's most natural. He's a joker - a natural trickster. There's no way to separate it from him.

 

_It is foul-smelling, and annual, standing at around two to five feet._

 

Just outside, a boy hugs his arms to him - Samandiriel, Castiel thinks, or something of the like. He can't be more than sixteen, no matter what the officers say. He's just a boy. A child - even younger than they are, themselves. Uriel and Balthazar converse in hushed tones. When Castiel glances towards them, the words cease in their flow. Balthazar offers him a smile.

" - if you had any sense," Gabriel says, "you'd know we'll be home by Christmas. Obviously."

Gabriel smiles, and Lucifer snorts. "If you say so."

Their hands are so close, they're almost touching.

 

_Generally, they flower throughout the summer months, and grow wild in warm or moderate habitats._

 

Thorn-apple. Disguise.

"I do," Gabriel says.

That's when it happens. There's a noise - a boom - a louder one, that makes the metal walls rattle, and the corrugated ceiling shake. Castiel looks up - and then there's a moan. It's long, and anguished - and Michael's already on his feet, sprinting to Samandriel's side. The boy rocks, crouching down, hands planted over his ears - and Gabriel rises to his feet, game forgotten, as Lucifer twists in his seat.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Castiel can't breathe - the trench trembles, shook by the force. Castiel places a palm against the wall - as if he could hold it up, through force of will alone. Dirt comes off between his fingertips.

Michael pulls the boy up from the ground - and Castiel can only stare as he's led away, gasping and groaning, tugged forcefully into another dug-out. Faintly, he can hear Sarge, saying his name: "Sam. Sam, can you hear me? Samandriel."

They all look to one another, gazes flitting like fireflies. Uriel's brow is furrowed; Balthazar rests a rough palm against the wall, steadying himself. Gabriel stares around, lost, bewildered; Lucifer keeps him standing, holding him upright. Castiel's own hands curl into fists.

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

He hobbles between his plants, bursting and budding and binding, shears in hand (he fumbled in desk draws, grabbing them); and he swirls, spinning around, free - even as the air catches in his chest, and he has to slow down.

 

.

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

The ground is hard beneath his feet, and the rain pours down, in icy sheets. Feet, sheets - moth-bitten, pigeon-holed. Ducking his head against the cold, he traverses the familiar path, tripping over sticks and stones - familiarity, familiarity, damning and -

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

"Graceful...graceful..." And yes - for _grace_ , what else can it be? "This is what you want." He thrusts it out to the girl, before turning back, and cutting another bloom - to keep his conscience clear, he selects a large one, petalks unfurling. A white rose. _Purity._

"You grew this?" 

"Wrong, I'm afraid. It sprung into my hands just now. I'm sure the rose genie is around here somewhere." Castiel mimes staring, one hand over his eyes. "No. Terribly sorry. It must have run off. Better luck next time." 

 

.

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

Castiel starts to run - making his way down the hill, running a hand over his eyes - and they're wet, and his skin's wet, and his pyjamas are plastered to it - and he got them for Christmas, but they're a bit too big. Mummy says he'll grow into them, though - Mummy says -

He runs for the forest, and away from Anna, and everything and Mummy and Daddy and trees and white and sparks - he skids, slipping on wetness - and there's a flash - a burst of something, and a screech of metal, and a yell - and he throws his hands up, and he crouches, and his heart's pounding in his ears, and the world's banging, and banging, and banging, and bright -

 

.

 

_June 26, 1979_

 

Charlie takes the flower, clutching it to her chest, a comfort blanket; a shield, against all the forces of the world. It's feeble. "Th-thanks...ah..." Castiel collapses onto his regular chair, energy entirely spent. "Cas?"

"Yes?" Castiel says, as softly as he's capable of - and his voice scratches his throat, but it's worth it, for the look on Charlie Bradbury's face. She's wearing earrings. They're in hoops.

"Err - can I - come back? Tomorrow?"

 

.

 

_September 30, 1915_

 

Castiel misses Dean intensely. It's a constant pressure, on his chest - a constant heaviness in his heart, whenever he holds up a rifle, whenever he hears the sound of horses neighing, men yelling. It's like he's lost a part of himself - a part he never knew he needed, before. He keeps the petal inside the book, next to his heart. It's the safest place he can think of.

At night, he dreams. He can't stop himself.

 

.

 

_September 30, 1915_

 

It's hot - Castiel unbuttons his jacket, filthy in the summer heat - and he's covered in dirt, and it sticks to him, marking him out - but it's alright, because Anna's beside him, passing him her handkerchief. There's only a little blood on it. "Thank you," he says, ever straining for politeness, "that was good of you."

"It's my pleasure," she returns, "but I think this will do better." She hands him his clothes - dark trousers, and a white shirt. Castiel's certain they're his. It doesn't matter that he hasn't seen them before, never mind worn them.

 

_1\. It will be found that many flowers lay themselves out specially to attract the night-flying moths, and with this object in view, they are most frequently pure white and therefore very conspicuous._

 

"Thank you," he repeats, equally faux-placidly, and kisses her cheek. It tastes like ice. When he steps away, he's by the rose bushes - and it must be the right time of year for them, even though they're meant for spring, because they're in full bloom. He steps out of his uniform, pulling of the gear - but the straps keep catching, and the buttons won't pop - and by the time he's free from his boots, a puddle's forming around his feet, from his dripping skin.

"Here...let me sort that." Castiel smiles. He smiles at the man kneeling beside him, pushing his shoes away - and then he's standing, smoothing down Castiel's uniform. Castiel's brow furrows - furrowing, fur-row-ing.

 

_But not only are plants specially adapted to encourage the visits of particular groups of insects, but many of them take pains to exclude unprofitable visitors of the smaller kind, who would simply steal nectar or pollen without rendering any service in return._

 

"Aren't you going to help me take them off?"

And Dean grins - a wide, devilish grin, full of life, that makes Castiel's heart flip. He's just the way Castiel remembered - those green eyes, dancing with joy; the smear of freckles, beside his eye; the caramel skin, smooth and soft and tender and raw and his. Castiel thinks, in that moment, that he might be more than just a little broken; but seeing as it's Dean, it's forgivable. It's all forgivable, now.

"Yeah, I'll help you out." Dean places warm hands on his shoulders, rising - and Castiel stares at him, half-uncomprehending, half-expectant, warmth pulsing through him - and he wants something. Dean's eyes are large, and black, and green, and Castiel wants. "There. Done."

Dean moves away, arms dropping; and Castiel might be imagining the catch in his voice, but he doesn't think that he is. Castiel tries to fill the gap - but his common clothes come between them, and he glances down at the flapping fabric.

"Dean, these aren't mine," he says, tugging at the dinner jacket, "I can't wear them."

"You look good, though," Dean says, "real good, Cas."

 

_And so, for instance, when Nature makes the tubular bell of the Foxglove just sufficiently large to enable a big humble-bee to enter and well dust itself in pollen, she also takes care to plant a barrier of long hairs in the entrance, which small and unwanted insects cannot pass._

 

Castiel stares down at himself. Honestly, he can't see anything special - but perhaps Dean's vision is blurred, or something. That would make sense.

"Thank you," he says - and Dean's arms wind around him, and he stands there, basking in the warmth - and against his chest, he can feel Dean's heartbeat, rattling in time to his own - and it's so infinitely, impossibly right, that, for a while, Castiel forgets how wrong it is - closing his eyes, and holding Dean back, meeting the embrace with his own strength, soaking in Dean's scent: lavender, he recollects.

"It's alright. It's alright. I've got you."

 

_2\. The water required by an uprooted cutting should be just sufficient to maintain it in a fresh condition and, until roots have been formed to suck in a greater quantity of water, this should be given very sparingly and then only by means of a fine spray._

 

"Your clothes are queer," Castiel says.

Dean snorts. "That's what you'd think, ain't it, darlin'?"

And the sound - the sound of that-

"Darling?" Castiel says, and his voice is a breath. Dean's hands are on his hips. Behind him, the ivy is growing - scratching its way up the wall, with leaden nails.

Dean's head dips down, and he flushes. "Yeah."

Castiel can't stop himself from grinning. "You'd - you're-"

"Don't have to make a song 'bout it. Sheesh."

 

_3\. Bulbous subjects are usually propagated by means of offsets, removed and planted out when the parent bulbs are lifted as the foliage ripens. Plants with corns, such as Gladioli, will often produce a mass of small cormlets, the size of a pea or less, at the base of the corm; these may be sown at the normal planting time to develop into flowering size corms in two or three years' time._

 

Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a white rose - and even though there can't have been enough room for it, in the back of beyond, it's a thoughtful gesture.

"Alberic Barbier," Castiel says aloud. "It's - it's very beautiful."

"Not mine," Dean says - and Castiel nods, because credit is due where credit is due. "You're the one who raised it."

"Only the front of the grounds. The back was terribly overgrown."

Dean nods. "I knew," he says.

"I couldn't look after it all. I - I spent too much time reading, and not enough time - doing." Castiel leans against the wall, eyes closing. "I should have been better."

"No. No, don't you say that. That ain't right."

"It's true, though. It's a mess. It's all a mess. I'm so - so cold at night, Dean. In the daytime, too. I see the bodies, and..." Castiel rubs his eyes, with the heels of his palms. "I don't know. It's - it's the same, day after day after day. Mud and rats and corpses and flies and bombs and guns and cold."

"Hey, Cas," the voice says. "Cas. Castiel."

Dean moves in front of him, blocking out the light - and he's a thorn-apple, a birch, a beech. All pointed tips and harsh edges.

"Gabriel?"

And Gabriel's there. There's a cup of tea in his hands; he blows on it, before taking a sip. The steam from it rises into the pale blue clouds. The sun is too hot. Gabriel has a blue mouth. It is stained with blackberries. There's a bush, somewhere near here.

"You don't have any right," Dean says. "None.

 Dean's hand is worn, in his. Castiel holds on tight - their fingers interlock, lacing together. It suddenly strikes Castiel that not only is he dreaming, but he is holding Dean Winchester's hand. It's - something. 

Gabriel's leaning on the wall, scraping and scratching, hands in his trouser pockets, smile belying his words, and he's smiling, and he's -

Joshua is holding him up, at the top of the ceiling, and Castiel's fingers are scraping the ceiling, and he's laughing, and it doesn't matter that Joshua is the Negro gardener, because Castiel loves him, and why does it matter? Why does it matter at all? Why does any of it matter?

 

.

 

Castiel blinks, rolling over, Dean's body gone from his - and he stretches toward it, craving the touch - but finds only hard wood, and Gabriel's face, shadowed.

 

"Glad to see you, little brother," he says.

 

 

At night, he dreams - such sweet dreams, of green eyes and waving stems, and mulch and cottages and slush, and loving hands, caressing his body - and when he wakes, he splashes filthy water on his face, and hisses that it is wrong, that it is evil, that it is unpure - that Dean feels the same, that he will wait. He will wait.

 

 

Once, Gabriel catches him: Castiel's standing at the entrance to the tent - and all around, men are moaning. Playing with the bandage on his hand, he stares out into the frigid night. The word's out before he can stop it: "Dean." And Castiel sighs, head dipping into his chest. 

"Castiel?" Castiel spins around - and Gabriel's standing there, his own arm in a sling. "Who're you talking to?" 

"Gabriel." Castiel has his heart in his mouth. His pulse is spiking. He is terrified. Gabriel is watching him. There is sunlight, behind his head. There are stubs of nails. There are fists.

Gabriel nods - once, twice.

"Alright," he says, and then, after a pause, "best get some rest." And then, just like that, he goes back to bed, pulls up the covers, and turns his head away. Castiel looks out into the night, as the gas lamps flicker and the tent's walls rattle, and Castiel shuts his eyes, tight.

He doesn't sleep. Naturally. 

Castiel cleans his gun until the sun comes up, and the bugle sounds, and they are called into lines. He stands between a beefy rifleman and somebody he doesn't know. Gabriel's eyes don't meet his. 

They don't have breakfast, that morning. Castiel's stomach growls. They wind up walking empty, crocodile-fashion. The ground is impassable, in places - they walk in single file, the wind whipping past them. 

 

**.**

 

_White rose (rosa)_

_White roses are native to Asia, and is a woody perennial. It is hardy plant, blooming from the middle of spring to the beginning to autumn. In the language of flowers, the name means purity._


	4. Chapter 4

**VIII**

 

_Fact: Shrubs are highly likely to be damaged by frost. Be sure to cover them, during the winter season._

.

_March 13, 1979_

 

Dean hasn't been to the library, before. He's been to _libraries_ , sure. Been run out of them, too. Point is, he's not really a book checking out kinda guy. He's more likely to go to the back, and start flicking through the comics. They've always had better stories - and if anyone said they weren't real books, Dean'd just spit on their shoes. Nowadays, he's a touch more refined than that. Just a touch. Dad said they were proper enough, anyhow.

By now, he knows his way around town - from arcade to supermarket to dinky little outta-the-way store, where Charlie works. Granted, he doesn't often stray from work-home-work-home, but he knows what he's doing. Knows the way to the hospital, now. Knows his way around.

It's an old brick building, on the far side of the square. It's seen better days. The roof looks like it's about to cave in. There's a sign in the window: closed for business, it says. Will return shortly. There's a car, as well - a sleek, black Bentley. 20's style. Smooth and pretty. Like Dean's motor, except - not quite. There aren't any plants, unless you're counting the sagging little dandelion out front. And they don't even count as flowers.

Sam's waiting in his car, when Dean comes out. It's hideous. It's yellow. It's a monstrosity. It's got an engine the size of a tin can, and it couldn't accelerate if you jammed the throttle through the floor.

Sam honks the horn. Loudly. He waves. "Don't get lost, old man!"

Dean wrinkles his nose, as he climbs inside. "Nice ride," he says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Bobby lent it to me. You need a lift, you don't need a lift - geez. You could've just walked."

"If you wanna impress a girl, you've gotta get something better than this rust bucket. Seriously." Dean slaps the side. He probably leaves an indent. Sam starts, eyes flickering sideways.

"Girl? Who said anything 'bout any girl?"

"Start the car, Sammy," Dean says.

 

.

 

_December 20, 1914_

 

"Ain't you got a girl, Cas?"

Castiel sighs. It's like the question's personally offended him, somehow. "I hardly have opportunity to meet people, Dean."

And that's just like him - that weird way of speaking, always so formal. Then again, if Dean had been stuck in here when he was a kid, he'd probably have turned out a little funny, too.

Cas is sitting back, conversation apparently over. He's got his shirt-sleeves buttoned up, but his tie's loose around his neck. Dean can see the arches of collar-bones through the starched fabric. He's close enough to touch one of them, now.

"Must be someone," Dean tries again. "Lucky lady, down at the village. Huh?"

Castiel shrugs, but he's ducked his head; his shoulders are up. "No." 

Dean grins. _Gotcha_. "Who is it?" he asks. "Come on. Gotta give me something, here."

"No one," Cas replies, a little too quickly. The tips of his ears have turned pink. Dean racks his brains - but Cas hasn't talked about girls. Not like that. Dean would've noticed. It wouldn't have been hard.

"Hannah?" is the only name he can come up with.

Castiel shudders. "God, no."

"She talks to you," Dean points out.

"Because she's a servant," Castiel shoots back.

Dean nods. His mouth tightens. He swallows. "Get that stick outta your ass. She's not a lesser being, or whatever." Dean looks down. "Would you?"

Castiel snaps his book shut. For a kid, he's sure got a lotta balls. "Would I what?"

Dean chuckles. "Kiss her," he says. "Know what that is, don't you?" The thought of Cas kissing someone - anyone - is a strange one.

Castiel looks horrified. "No!" he says.

Dean exhales. "Alright," he says (mutters), "keep cool." And speaks no more about it.

"Cool? Why would I be - ?" (He wonders, though. Why wouldn't he?)

 

.

 

_March 14, 1979_

 

Dean does get to see the librarian, in the end. The black car's gone, from out front. There's a man, behind the desk. He's got blonde hair, and he's frowning - eyebrows knitted together, growling over some book or over.

"He thinks it's a joke," he's saying. Dean jumps. It isn't being said to him. "He thinks it's a joke," the man repeats. "A joke. Well. I can tell you now, this is not a joke."

The librarian stabs at the page. He's wearing a name-tag, but there's nothing written on it. His tie's hanging loose, around his neck. "A joke," he laughs. "Ha!" 

Dean almost heads over to him. He _almost_ does.

" _Ha_!"

Instead, he goes to the back. The books loom over him. The air smells of dust, and thickness. In the sunlight up above, Dean can see the dust particles floating. If he put a hand up, he could practically card his fingers through them.

There's a group of chairs, along the back wall. Aside from a couple of kids, the space is deserted. Dean has to practically hop over them to get past - two boys, lying on their stomachs. Dean thinks he's seen them with bikes, around the academy.

On impulse, Dean decides he likes the library. It's warm, and quiet; there's an air of stillness to it. Dean hasn't felt up to sitting down in a long while. 

 

.

 

June 26, 1910

 

"Are you scared?"

"No. I'm not afraid."

"Why not?"

"Why would I be?"

"Creepy ass man appears in the middle of your road, and nobody else can see him? Sounds like the start of a horror story."

"Creepy ass?"

"You know what I mean."

"There are things that people should be afraid of, and things that people shouldn't. You're real. I'm not scared of you."

"Most kids would be."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

 

.

 

March 15, 1979

 

The library, as it turns out, is completely and utterly useless. Strike that - Dean speaks a lie. If he wanted to know about the specifics of eighteenth century dances, or apple cultivation. or 'prophecies', he'd be in the clear. He does find an interesting one about rearing tomatoes, but he shoves it back on the shelf. As it is? Nothing. Not a speck, not a smidgen, not a whimper.

He's found the WW1 section. He's found it. The question is - where to look? It's just a bunch of old poetry, and textbooks. Nothing he doesn't already know. Nothing. Not a speck. Not a smidgen. Not a whimper. Reference books. Numbers. Way, way too many numbers. Piles and piles of 'em. _Memoirs of an Infantry Officer,_ it says. _Siegfried Sassoon_.

The kids are back, again. They've moved further away - over to the far wall, where, Dean presumes, they think they can't be heard. Good try, but - not good enough. "You can't know she's like that," one of them says - the taller one.

_Seven Pillars of Wisdom. T. E. Lawrence._

The smaller one nods, head bouncing up and down. "Can too. She told me. When I asked her out, she said she couldn't - and then I asked her why, and she said-"

"No, she ain't. It's just - growing up, right? She'll get out of it."

"Mom says it's not. Mom says she'll be like that forever." The boy says the last word in a hush. He has bangs across his eyes. He's wearing gloves, even in the heat.

Dean slams another book back onto the shelf. The boys don't turn. They're staring at each other - right into one another's eyes.

"Jesse," the taller boy says.

"Ben," bangs-and-gloves says. They keep looking.

"She'll grow out of it," taller - Ben - says.

"Not what mom said," Jesse replies. "Hey. Is that Mr Winchester?"

"Keep your voice down! He'll hear you!" Ben giggles. 

"So what?" Jesse flops onto his back, and crosses small arms over his chest. "Got fired, didn't he? Wasn't our teacher. He was only in _after_ school."

 

.

  

_June 26, 1910_

 

"If I'm gonna - stay, we've gotta set down some ground rules."

"Like what?" "We don't talk about where I come from."

"Dean - " 

"I ain't an angel, okay? I've got nothing to do with them. But my home is my business. I don't wanna be reminded." 

"We could change time. I understand."

"Yeah. That."

"And...?"

"And nothing. It's about that."

"Fine. Deal."

 

.

 

_March 15, 1979_

 

Dean leaves _Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ beneath his chair. He leaves a bottle there, too.

 

.

 

_June 26, 1910_

 

 

"How come you believe all of this? "

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I could be lying."

"What reason would you have to lie?"

"...True."

"Yes. Come closer."

"Why?"

"I want to see you."

"You can see me from there just fine."

"I want to hold your hand."

"Why?"

"Will you?"

"Yeah, but why? I mean - "

"You're warm."

"Why wouldn't I be?" "I don't know. I thought you'd be colder."

"Why?"

"You ask that a lot."

"Sorry."

"It's alright. I appreciate it."

"Cool."

 

.

 

_March 18, 1980_

 

After the crash, they wouldn't give him his old job back. Apparently, he was 'in no fit state to be with kids - even if it is just gardening'. He needed to rest, and recuperate, and spend some bonding time with his brother.

("It's for the best," Gordon's telling him, from across the desk. Dean stares. Gordon stares. "Honestly, Dean? We've been looking at the funds, and we've got to make some cut-backs. We won't be able to keep the school open, otherwise."

"So sell the computer. Don't scrap the class!"

Gordon's wearing a white suit, and dark glasses. He looks like some angelic tax-accountant. "I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself," he says. "We paid you to mow the lawn, Mr Winchester. That's all.")

Dean had calmly laughed, stepped around the desk, and punched Principal Walker in the jaw. Somebody had to.

So now, he's got another job - a less well-paid one, but still, work is work, and food's gotta get on the table somehow. He isn't feeding two, though, anymore.

At first, Cas wouldn't hear of it. "It's your wages, Dean," he'd say, "I will not take them from you." And he'd look such like a moody little thirteen year old, Dean'd cover Cas's mouth with his hand, and shut up about it.

Even so, if Castiel noticed the additions to his flower stash, he didn't comment. Dean loved that about him. It's easier to say, inside his head.

"Winchester! Quit slacking!" Bobby barks at him, from underneath the hood of a car. The car is not, in fact, a car. It is a truck - a Blue Ford F-100, 1965. It is not a Black Chevy Impala, 1969. Dean can see that car, from where he stands.

Dean grits his teeth, wipes his oily hands, and gets to it. His hands slip. There are daisies everywhere, around these parts. His back is sore. It's roasting. He sweats. His mouth tastes metallic. He hums.

 

.

 

_March 17, 1979_

 

"Hey. Could I ask for a little help?" The man's head snaps up. He's got his hands folded together, and his back to the front. He swivels his chair around, so that they're on the same page.

"Hello," he says. He does not say, how can I help you?

Dean swallows. "Do you have any - death certificates? I mean, registers. I'm lookin' for - uh - a family member. Great-great something or other."

The man peers at him. "That's not my area of expertise," he says.

Dean nods. "Yeah. Err. Do you - uh - "

 

.

 

March 18, 1980

According to Bobby, his family had always been warriors. His father had been a hunter, and his father before him, and his father before him. Dean can just picture a long line of ancient, saggy Singers, chasing mammoths with wooden sticks.

Bobby has bones in the cupboard beside his bed. He has them in the living room, too. Those ones are in glass cases. There's a big horse skull with all of its teeth, and a full rabbit with little spindly thigh bones and fibula and tibia and a great big domed crest of a head. There's a frog, too. It's in a box with a clear plastic cover. It has its limbs all stretched out. Part of the skin's peeling off its back. It's like a science display, except weird.

When Dean asked him why he left it there, Bobby just looked at him. "I was your father's friend, boy," Bobby used to say. "Not a saint. Although God knows I'd have to be, to put up with him." And then he'd spat, and that was the conversation done.

Bobby chews tobacco. It turns his teeth yellow.

Dean has a room at Bobby's place. It's up at the top of the house, and it's been his since they ran into Bobby. Almost ran _down_ , to be honest. Fortunately for Dean, apparently he's the spitting image of his dad. Recognition and all that.

Bobby's house smells musty, but it's warm. He gets two blankets in the winter - used to, when they'd stopped there. Sam and Dean have a flat, now. It's a poky little place - a kitchen, and a bathroom with a swing door, and the living room with two beds and a bookcase and a couch. There aren't any bones inside at all.

After work, Bobby gives him biscuits. They come on a white paper plate.

"Don't you own china?" Dean asks, and dodges the look Bobby throws his way.

"I save it for special occasions. You don't count." Bobby picks one up, and takes a bite out of it. He puts it down again. "And don't go criticisin' me, boy. I get enougha that from your brother. Rolls into town, and thinks he owns the place. 'Nuff to make a grown man weep."

"Yeah. Figures." Dean pokes at the wrappers. "What's this one?"

Bobby smirks at him, from beneath the brim of his cap. "Red Devil," he says. "And what you've got in your mouth is a Lilac Loonie. Think it fits, don't you?"

Dean coughs. "Yeah. Think so."

Bobby sits back, in his chair, chortling. "How's that garden of yours coming along?"

"Okay," Dean says. "Fine."

Bobby purses his lips, and picks up another biscuit. Around a mouthful of crums, he says: "You know how I know you're lyin', Winchester?" A bird flaps past, twittering loudly. Dean shakes his head.

"Nope."

"You're not meetin' my eye," Bobby says.

Dean's neck jerks around. Bobby grins.

 

.

 

Dean walks away. He walks away, into the twilight. Outside, it's beginning to spit. He turns his coat collar up. The supermarket's glowing; light's too bright, shining down.

There's a smaller shop, on the edge of town. Dean traces his own footsteps to it. His hair is sodden. His cheeks are streaked. In the window, there's a sign for beans. Dean peers through. He cups his hands around his face. His breath fogs against the glass.

Inside, Sam's sitting down. He's got his mop out in front of him, and his legs stretched out. His head's lolling back. He's not sleeping - but he isn't looking across, either. Sitting.

 

.

 

_March 19, 1980_

 

"Tell me about Castiel," Crowley says.

Dean frowns. "No."

Crowley leans forward, putting his notes to the side again. "Why not?"

 _Because he's not yours._ "Because he ain't real." And that's right, isn't it? That's all well and good. He's not real. He's fake. He's a dream; a story; a whisper. He's the cross at the end of the hallway. He's the stone at the end of the street. He's the weed, pushing up through the cracks, over and over again. Cas Novak. Cas. Ain't that right?

"You don't think that."

He's a beautiful seventeen-year-old boy, holding your hand in the moonlight. He's just another kid, and you're sitting on the end of his bed.

"No? How come?"

Crowley moves back. He seems to be doing some kind of complex chair ritual. Dean doesn't know how it works.

"Because if you did, you'd have given up on him."

"Who says I haven't?"

Crowley tips his chin forwards. "The librarian."

Dean flinches. "How - ?" 

"It's a small town. News gets around." Crowley stares at him, over the tops of his shades. He has small, bright eyes. "I'm trying to help, Dean. But if you're not going to be honest with me, there's nothing I can do."

Dean goes to his feet, almost knocking over the chair. "I guess we're done here, then," he says.

Crowley smiles - thin, and taut. "Looks that way," he says. "But if you're leaving, lock the door behind you. Can't stand a draft." With that, he looks away, and picks up his pad.

Dean sinks back into his seat, and stares at the ceiling. "Can't go," he mutters. "Sammy'll have my hide."

"You're not here for your brother. You're here for yourself."

"I ain't here for me. Alright? You can cut that out." Dean rubs at his eyes; he swallows. "This ain't helping."

There's a pause. Then - "Do you know what the highest natural point is, here in Kansas?" Crowley asks. Dean shakes his head. "It's called Mount Sunflower. Isn't that a funny coincidence? With you being a gardener, I mean." Crowley smiles, again. Dean doesn't smile back.

"Funny." 

 

"It's three thousand three hundred feet high, and signifies precisely nothing. It's just another rock."

Dean grits his teeth. "Point?"

"Kansas, Dean, rises from East to West. Mount Sunflower's situated above our fair state's topographic low point, making it completely indistinguishable from the land surrounding it." Crowley's fingertips lock. He blows out a breath; it's as though he's smoking, jetting out rings. "Maybe you should take up climbing."

"What? Exercise therapy?"

Crowley's teeth flash. "No, love," he says. "Perspective."

 

.

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

When Dean arrives at the house, he's in the middle of a thunderstorm. Lighting crashes - thunder rumbles. Rain's pelting down, around him - and he staggers, half-tripping over a tree root - but it can't be a tree root, because he's in the middle of the goddamn highway - and Sammy, where is Sammy? He's gotta be around here somewhere, him and the car - and God, God, the car, and he's gonna get his ass handed to him, and _God_ -

Dean takes a breath, dragging the air in. There's an avenue of trees, in front of him. They don't look much like the ones on the highway. Those were birch; these are oak, and beech. Ain't nothin' similar 'bout _them_.

The ground crunches underneath his feet. It's raining harder - he can barely see through it. Blinking, Dean raises a hand, trying to keep the raindrops out of his eyes. No way plants are gonna survive this - they'll be waterlogged. And yet - Snowdrops. Dean steps in a puddle, as he stoops to look. They're all around, here; starting to bloom, opening widely. _Snowdrops_. Dean can do snowdrops.

"Sam?" Dean says. There's mud on his face. He rubs his eyes. The knees of his jeans are torn. His palms are red. They're scraped.

 

.

 

_March 20, 1980_

 

Dean makes himself a cup of tea, and stares out of the window. It's just beginning to rain. Droplets run down the glass; they distort his reflection, making his cheeks curve inwards, and the bags under his eyes droop downwards. Through it, he can make out the garden. The wisteria, are blooming again - bluer than blue, standing out against the sky.

Dean peers closer; presses a hand to the surface. It's cold to the touch. Strange, seeing as it's so warm outside. Against it, Dean's breath steams. He goes outside, and waters the plants, and fills up the bird feeder. He trims the hedge. He gets down on his knees, and takes out the trowel. There aren't any seeds left at all.

 

.

 

_July 4, 1911_

 

Anna is a fast runner. She's small, and brusque, and has long red hair. It pools on the base of her spine. When she runs, she outstrips Castiel easily, beating him to the front of the manor in a heartbeat.

Her parents don't like it - say that she needs to calm down, that it can't be good for her. Anna pouts, and stomps, and sometimes screams. Dean can relate.

For a sick kid, Anna sure is running around a lot. Dean doesn't care to think why.

The parents are well-meaning, Dean supposes, but he still likes Castiel best. He's biased that way. Maybe it's his eyes. They 

The father's name is Charles. He has short brown hair, and wide brown eyes. He's a writer, as far as Dean can tell. He locks his door for hours.

Castiel gets his eyes from Rebecca. She's the mother. She talks a lot. She talks to herself a lot - which, in Dean's humble opinion, is pretty darn crazy. Then again, he don't suppose he's in a position to judge.

Hannah's tiny, and blonde. She's a little kid, really - too young to be working up here. She's just a bit older than Castiel. She seems to be everywhere, round these parts - cooking and cleaning and washing and drying and pretty much whatever else needs doin'. She can handle it, Dean thinks. Even though she isn't enough. Kids shouldn't be running houses. The dust lies in inches.

And then there's Joshua, who was the gardener. He was old, and lined, and world-weary. He planted, too, and he died. 

 

.

 

_August 16, 1909_

 

Joshua passes in the autumn. They find him in the cabbage patch. His laces are untied. His feet are sticking out of the bottom. He's wearing black trousers, and a white shirt,with the sleeves rolled up.

A heart attack, apparently. These things happen. 

They bury him in the garden, beneath the row of oak trees. The vicar crosses himself, and he crosses Father, and he says, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." 

A heart attack, apparently. These things happen. 

"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God; whom I shall see for myself and mine eyes shall behold, and not as a stranger."

Castiel rubs his arms. Mother stands next to Father, with Anna at her feet. Anna's crying, even though she has no right to it - and Hannah's smoothing hands into her hair, and telling her not to worry, not to worry, not to cry. 

"For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself. For if we live, we live unto the Lord, and if we die, we die unto the Lord. Whether we live, therefore, or die, we are the Lord's." 

Mother blows her nose on her handkerchief. Father doesn't turn his head. He just stares down into the hole. 

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the spirit, for they rest from their labours. The Lord be with you." 

"And with thy spirit," Hannah says. 

"Let us pray." The vicar wipes his glasses. "O God, whose mercies cannot be numbered: Accept our prayers on behalf of thy servant Joshua, and grant him an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of thy saints; through Jesus Christ thy Son our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen." 

"Amen," Father says, and Mother, and Hannah.

"Amen," Castiel echoes, and nudges Anna. 

 "Amen," she says.

 

_._

 

_November 4, 1915_

 

Michael is the first to go.

All the months at the academy can't prepare you for it; the fancy drills, they don't help. One second, you're lying in a trench, your captain beside you, waiting for your chance to run - and the gun's cold in your hands, as he holds up his own. Wait. Your breathing increases; sweat sticks to your skin. You wait - and it's dark, and it's just the two of you, and everyone else has run off, and Gabriel was right behind you, and where is Gabriel?

Somewhere, you can hear screaming - and Michael says: "Come on." And he scrambles forwards, clutching at the walls - and you follow, blindly, helmet slipping down over your forehead. Anna wouldn't like to see you like this - she was always so delicate, so slight, so frail, so small. So sickly. You'd protect her from it, if you could. You'd save her from herself - from her own traitorous -

And then you're at the top of the trench, into the whiteness - and there's mud all around, sticking to your shoes - and you hitch your rifle up, and you run. You run. You run, and you pray, and you think of green eyes and pale faces and shaking, rattling coughs, and stay safe, Castiel. Come home.

 

_The bark of the Holly is smooth and pale grey in colour._

_No doubt, in its early history, cattle found out its good qualities as food, and browsed upon the then unarmed foliage._

 

Michael is the first to go. One second, they're running, feet slipping, facing the enemy - and the next, there's a man in front of them - one of the Germans, one of the others - and he's pointing a rifle, at Michael - and Castiel reaches out a hand, frozen - and then Michael's falling, mouth in a gaping-O - and he gutters, turning to Castiel, gasping - and Castiel reels back, away, away, get out get out get out -

 

_In self-defence the tree developed spines upon its leaves, and so kept its enemies at a distance._

_The wood of the Holly has an exceedingly fine grain, and is very hard and white._

 

Michael is the first to go, tumbling into the dirt. Still. Quiet. Gone. And Castiel yells his name, and the man's still there, reloading, so Castiel swings his gun round, and fires.

Bang.

The man drops like a stone - and Castiel gasps, reeling back - and there's no air, but he picks himself up - and he has no choice, no choice at all - and he runs, turning tail, leaving his captain in the foreign dirt - with his rich milk voice and his slight smiles and his beetle-black eyes and the family he'll never come home to, because they all have someone somewhere, do they not? All those islands.

 

_The small white flowers of the Holly are about a quarter of an inch across, with four petals and four to six stamens or two to four stigmas._

_The Strawberry Tree (arbutus unedo)_

_This tree hails from the family ericaceae. Though the Strawberry-tree may be seen in parks and gardens, it will not be found in the woods or by the waysides in Great Britain; but in parts of Ireland it is native._

 

Castiel keeps running. He takes two steps. He can taste bile in his mouth.

He turns back, and kneels down.

 

_The bark is rough and scaly, tinged with red, and twisted._

 

Michael has blood running out of his mouth. It trickles along his lip, in a low line. Castiel grabshis shoulders, and pulls him down. They fall into the shell-hole together. Castiel half-stumbles. His hands are caked in dirt.

There's already a soldier in the pit. He's German. He's wearing their uniform. He's rotting away. Half of his face has caved in. One of his eyes is a hollow.

And then there is the man he shot. He's plain. Moustache, pasty skin. Holes. German. No wrinkles. Not young, but not old, either. Average. Medium build; slightly lighter than normal. Bones jutting out through his cheeks. 

Castiel lies between them, and breathes in, and breathes out, and keeps his head down low. His hands fumble on Michael's helmet strap. His hands shake. The Boche is looking at him, and he's dead. Michael has died, too. Anna would think it was all rather vile.

Michael has stopped dribbling. He has stopped leaking. He is not moving. He died instantly. It would have been painful. It would have hurt.

Castiel takes the helmet, and throws it away, as hard as he can, and it bounces, and it falls in the dirt, and he has no choice, and everything is beetle-black, and Anna would presume that the strawberry trees were in blossom, and isn't it so had? Isn't it so hard to make prose - make pictures with words, make words out of pictures - when everything is going to the bombs?

Castiel has shot a man. He shot him, and he didn't even have to. Michael was already dead - or as good as dead, or something like it. The man wasn't even firing at him. He could've stepped back. Gone down into the trench. Covered his head. 

Michael has stopped dribbling. He has stopped leaking. He is not moving. He died instantly. It would have been painful. It would have hurt. He didn't die for his country. He didn't die believing in a higher power. He died because a soldier shot him, and then the soldier died because Castiel shot back.

There isn't a point to it. It's meaningless. It hasn't helped a jot. Michael is dead, and he's never coming home, and that is the end of that; Zachariah's going to write a letter to his family, saying how he is home with God, and somewhere, maybe he is. Saying how he died doing his duty, when he didn't. He didn't save anyone. 

Castiel tugs at the side of his head, and at his hair, and rocks back and forth, and back and forth, and his back scrapes the wall. He cries. 

 

.

 

_June 27, 1979_

 

Castiel gets a glass of water, hands shaking - he flicks on the light. It spills out over the gaudy tiles, coating them with a vaguely amber sheen. In the kitchen cabinet he catches sight of his reflection: it's still his face, he supposes - the face that he remembers. A young man, with the world at his feet.

He was never beautiful; he's certain of that. Dean was always the handsome one: chiselled and buff and perfect, with his smooth smile and his sleek grin, and the smattering of freckles lining the bridge of his nose. Castiel can remember everything about him - even today, that hasn't faded. It's not the remembering that's the problem.

It's funny; he has trouble recalling what he had for breakfast, but he can see Dean as though it was yesterday.

His eyes are the same, anyway. But now, his skin has wrinkled - his jaw has sagged - bags have grown, and stretched, and taken permanent residence. And as he looks at himself, he realises that he's old. Old.

He had so many plans, for his life. So many, many plans.

There is a wheelbarrow, up against the wall. It is green.

"What happened to you?" he asks. "What am I doing?"

There is a small bag of compost, and a rake.

He receives no answer - the man stares back impassively.

(In the mirror, Gabriel's eyes have clouded.)

Castiel sighs, and returns to the solace of his bed (but not to sleep). As he walks by, Gabriel steps aside, head lowered.

(There is no reply to his question. There can't be.)

"I looked for him," Castiel says. "Every day, I looked. But he wasn't - he was-"

"You think he's dead," Gabriel says.

Castiel nods. "I looked," he repeats. "I tried."

"But you didn't try hard enough."

Castiel nods, again. "No," he says. "I couldn't."

 

.

 

_August 2, 1915 - Wiltshire, England_

 

The academy is a dull place. Every day is the same - dull, monotonous routine. Load the gun, point the gun, don't fire the gun. Crawl through mud, shovel down lunch, lie flat on your stomach. Take the training - the punches - the kicks. Take it all - and, in time, you will learn. You will learn. You will. Gabriel makes it easier - the witty puns he shoots around lightly, tripping off his tongue.

Castiel chooses to remain quiet. Uriel doesn't talk at all.

 

 

Sergeant Zachariah has a voice of sandpaper. He raps out the drills, over and over again. Sometimes, you have to lie on your stomach, and crawl through mud. Castiel hates those ones. It seems to get everywhere - and no matter how hard he scrubs, the chill won't go away.

Castiel's back is aching. He is covered in wet. He is tired. He has been washed. He is wet. He is heavy. His hands ache. His back is aching. He is tired.

Sergeant Zachariah is their Sergeant, they are told - and they must respect him. Michael's voice carries humour, as he says it. He has long, pale fingers, and a long, thick tongue. He talks about his family, often - his wife. She has long, pale hair, and long, thick lips. Castiel has seen the photographs. It has creases, at its edges.

Sometimes, people barge into Castiel's shoulders, in the corridors. Nobody touches Uriel. It is like he is an Antichrist. Castiel has seen a Negro up close, before. Some of the men must not have, or they must have forgotten. Whatever the case may be.

At some point, Michael will have kissed this woman. He will have held her hand, and led her behind the apple trees or the houses or the mud-walled huts, or wherever people like him come from. Michael is a city boy, he says. Castiel isn't sure what city houses are like.

Michael says that while they were in his city, he and his wife went dancing.

 

 

They piss on their boots, to soften them. It stinks. Castiel gags, and shoves a hand over his mouth. Gabriel doesn't look. He's good like that.

Castiel lies in bed, listening to Gabriel breathe in the bunk above. Castiel met him the day before; lounging against the wall, with a cigarette dangling from between parted lips, standing three inches away from Gabriel. He was smiling - smirking, almost.

"Hey there, private," he said, and laughed until he wheezed.

His name is a strange one. It must be foreign.

"I cannot do this," he hears Uriel say - a half-cough, in Lucifer's ear.

War is what they have - and soon, War will take them to France. It seems so far away - unreal.

Castiel pulls the book from beneath his pillow, slipping it open. From between the creased pages, a pressed petal tumbles out. He plays with it between his fingertips, holding it gently - and before his eyes, he thinks he can see it wither.

"Dean," Castiel whispers (and hopes he is not heard). "We're having trouble, here. I don't think you'd enjoy it. Raphael's a bore. The food is - unsatisfactory. Quite frankly, I'm beginning to wonder why I signed up in the first place. It's all - it's not - you. I suppose - I didn't consider-

"Stay safe, Dean," Castiel murmurs, and presses his fingers against his lips. They have grooves in them. They taste sour. The nails scratch. Outside, there is a banging. Gabriel stirs; he snuffles. The men pass them by, and Castiel rolls over.  

 

.

 

_June 29, 1979_

 

"I gave it to her."

Castiel opens his eyes. "Yes?"

"Yeah." Charlie fidgets. It's a bad habit - very unladylike. Anna used to do it, too, and Mother would scold her for it. "I just, um, left one on her doorstep. Coward's way out. But, uh, I didn't need two. So the other one's yours." She holds it out towards him; the petals droop, hopelessly. Castiel aches for the poor creature.

"Keep it."

Charlie looks surprised; her mouth opens. "Really? I mean, you grew it, so I thought you'd want it back. It's so pretty-"

"It's yours. Besides, I have no use for a wilted flower."

Charlie nods, mouth closing, face sealing.

"Right. 'Course. Sorry. I'll...err..." In vain, she pats at her pockets. "I don't have anywhere to, ah, put it. Sorry. I mean, I'll get a vase, at home. I'm sure I've got one somewhere...my flat has way too many cupboards." She flaps a hand, indicating the sheer number of hidey-holes with one sweeping gesture. "I could buy one. I don't think there's room in my sideboard, but I could ditch some of my gaming gear. I've been meaning to do it." 

"Press it," Castiel instructs, stopping the torrential outpouring, "keep the petals, at least. They may do you good, someday."

"Press the petals. Got it." Charlie plays with a strand of her hair - looping it around her pinkie, and then releasing it. "I guess this is it."

"Yes, I suppose it is." Castiel looks down at his lap, where his hands rest - gnarled. (They resemble, in his mind, walnuts.) He doesn't have anything to say - what could he tell her, anyway? 'I don't want you to go'? 'I'm lonely'? 'I want to help you'?

"Unless, err...you wanted to meet up some other time?"

Castiel's head snaps up. Charlie fixes her gaze on the ground, tucking the flower behind her ear, and then taking it down again. Castiel sits, for a moment - simply sits, and watches her breathe - in and out, fast.

"If you don't want to, that's totally cool, man. I wouldn't want to hang out with me, either. I'm sure you've got much better things to do-"

And Castiel looks at Charlie, in her trousers and her dark bandana, holding onto a white rose - alba maxima - and smiles.

 

_circa 1867. Large bush. Best left unpruned._

 

"Yes. I think I'd like that." Standing, he creaks to his feet. "You know, you still haven't taught me about your game. Shall we go in?"

Offering her his arm, he straightens up, raising his chin - just the way he was taught, in a crumbling house. A chance for the future.

Charlie slips her hand through his, leaning on his forearm; Castiel leads the way in, pushing the door open, and shutting it behind them. Outside, the wisteria shuffle and flutter, framing the door in a pale haze.

"You couldn't lose him," Gabriel says.

"Yes." 

 

.

 

_December 25, 1915_

 

They kneel before the wire, clipping away at it - Gabriel holds the light, as Castiel works the pliers. It was always the other way round, before - and now, suddenly, Castiel's the leader, and Gabriel's the follower. He can't remember when it happened; isn't conscious of how it changed. (And that, in itself is a lie.) The night is numbing - his fingers tingle, as he works, breath steaming from his mouth.

There was a sort of celebration, before. Ephraim brought out ciggies, and he passed them round; Gabriel took one, and he smoked on it. Ephraim has a cigarette box, too. He keeps a strand of hair in his. It's long enough to wrap around his knuckles once. It's black. 

Above, Castiel knows there must be stars. He doesn't look for them anymore. He hasn't for a long time; but there they remain, regardless. 'The sentinels of the heavens', Balthazar called them. He'd always been poetic.

They all used to tease him about it - but he was. He was a poet, and a writer, and a musician; a lover of the stage, and the arts, and all things fine. He was an artist, a painter, a philosopher - he was a courtesan, an artisan of the highest court, trapped in a time where he did not belong. He used to have a notebook, in the inside pocket of his jacket.

 

.

 

_November 1, 1915_

 

"There used to be a forest here, you know," Balthazar proclaims. A startled private moves away, as Castiel chuckles.

"Really?"

"Really truly." Balthazar traces lines in the air, with his finger - painting imaginary trees, so strongly that even Castiel can almost imagine them himself. "Great, leaf-ridden arches, splaying out across the heavens."

"Leaf-ridden? Sounds like a disease," Castiel responds, half-giggling.

Gabriel pops up behind them, flinging a wild arm around Castiel's shoulders. Castiel isn't entirely certain how to respond. "Or a sexual act," he puts in, "Kali'd probably be fond of it. I'm definitely trying it out when we get home."

"That's if she lets you," Balthazar points out, "I thought she was more likely to clout you around the head, and kiss the milkman."

Gabriel makes a face.

"Point taken. Still, I don't think he went off to fight. When I return a triumphant hero, she'll see the light."

"Or maybe you will," Castiel shoots back, lowering his rifle slightly, "if she throws you out again."

Balthazar doesn't stop laughing for ten minutes.

 

.

 

_November 2, 1915_

 

"Did you know that Emily Brontë was a poet?"

Castiel rubs a hand across his forehead.

"No," Gabriel says.

Balthazar smirks. "You see," he says, "this is the kind of thing you learn, at university."

Gabriel snorts. "Piffle."

"You wound me, sir!"

"I'll wound you in a minute. Keep digging."

"Love is like the wild rose-briar/ Friendship like the holly-tree— The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms/ But which will bloom most constantly?"

Balthazar blinks. "Well," he says, "Cassy. Who knew you were a romantic?"

Castiel ducks his head, and Gabriel claps him around the ear.

 

.

 

_July 9, 1979_

 

"Check mate," Charlie informs him, from across the board. Castiel frowns at his pieces, hoping that they might magically reassemble themselves. Needless to say, they don't. The girl smirks at him, much too smugly. "Aww! You lost! I thought you said you were good at this?" Gabriel nudges him in the ribs, from the spare seat.

"Yeah, Cassy. I thought you were meant to be good at this?" he snickers. Castiel resists the urge to smite him with a frying pan. Charlie might see - and that, perhaps, might raise a few rather significant questions. He supposes he could blame it on age - but somehow, with that girl, he doesn't think it would work.

"I was. I used to play with my sister." Castiel picks up his pawns, plopping them back into the black pot. "She was very good."

"I never knew you had a sister." Charlie helps him pack up the board, folding it in half, and slipping it into her satchel. She's wearing the rose jacket, again. Castiel finds himself liking it.

"You're getting sentimental, old man." Gabriel takes a cigarette from his pack, and bites it, holding it in place between his teeth. "In my day, you'd never have stood for so many questions. Monosyllables served you well."

"I did," Castiel says, "in England. Her name was Anna."

"Anna?" Charlie mulls over it, sounding it out between her teeth. "Nice."

"Yes. Yes, it is," Castiel agrees, nodding, "she was - she did me a great service. And she was wonderful. Naturally." He can feel Gabriel's gaze on him - watching keenly, as ever. Beady-eyed. Hawk-like.

"You're lucky. My family's the pits." Charlie leans forward onto her arms, resting her head on them. "They keep saying I should get married. Find some guy, live out my life."

Gabriel makes a little 'ooh' noise. Castiel supposes it means sympathy.

"And you don't want that?" On the table, Charlie shakes her head, mumbling something incomprehensible. "What?"

"I'd like to be a writer." Charlie's face reemerges. She speaks so fast, her words blur together. Gabriel stubs out the cigarette - his hand hovers over her arm. Castiel watches, with bemused interest. "I don't want to settle down here. I mean, if I found the right person, I'd be all for it. But - I'm not ready for that, yet."

"I thought you had found 'the one'?"

Gabriel's hand is clean as he withdraws it. He has short pink nails. 

"Yeah, but she doesn't like me, does she? She likes that guy. Tall, handsome, brunette." Charlie glares at her imaginary adversary; Castiel tilts his head to one side.

"Are they - together?"

"Well, duh. They were looking pretty friendly behind the diner. That's all the evidence I need."

Castiel smiles at her. "Sometimes, the people we need aren't the ones we want. Or so I've heard." Awkwardly, he pats her hand. "It'll work out. You'll see."

"I hope so," Charlie says, before taking a breath, and plastering on a broad, red-lipped smile. "Hey, I'm in the mood for another game. Want to play?"

Castiel shrugs. "Isn't there a job you have to go to?" 

"Part-time," Charlie says. "My folks look after me." 

"What, the homophobes?" Charlie chokes. "I'm saying what you told me." 

"Yes, but - oh, come on! That's not fair! You don't get to call my parents that!" 

"And why not? They are." 

"They're entitled to their opinions, old man." 

Castiel nods. "Of course. I'd never try to dissuade them. I simply disagree." 

"But isn't that disrespectful? I mean, towards them. That's bad." 

"It is," Castiel says. "And I apologise for my rudeness. But my view still stands." 

Charlie's watching him. "Okay," she says. "That's - that makes sense." 

"You are not your parents, Charlie," Castiel says, "as I am not mine. My father would most likely have been horrified." 

"And your mother? I supposed she would've been the comforting one, huh? You've gotta have half of a - " 

"Oh, no," Castiel says quickly. "She would have been worse. Much, much worse. Probably would have swooned." 

"People actually did that?" 

Castiel leans back in the chair. "Yes," he says, "sometimes. Do you know, there was this one girl in the village - April, I think, or - or perhaps Summer. No, no, April. Anyway, we - she and I - I only visited occasionally, but she seemed to have developed an infatuation with me. I must have been tolerably handsome, but it was probably the sense of intrigue. Or something like that." 

"You're good looking," Charlie comments. "Nice bone structure." 

"Anyway, she - well, when I went down into the village, I did so to pick up vegetables. Hannah was often busy, and the household staff was short, so I volunteered. Little did I know then that every time April would see me, she'd have such - extreme reactions." 

Charlie raises her eyebrows. "Extreme? That sounds ominous. Tell me all." 

"As in fainting," Castiel clarifies. "Falling down. Repeatedly. And every time, it would be up to me to catch her." 

"No," Charlie says, "no, this - this is too good. You're making this up." 

"I'm not! It was awful!" Castiel rocks forwards, and winces, and says, "I kid you not. Every. Single. Time. Once a week, for months and months." 

" _No_ ," Charlie wheezes, "gosh, Cas! That's terrible!" 

"I know! And the worst part was, when she woke up, she'd always make me stay for longer! She'd make up some excuse, like - like her hair was out of place, and would I touch it up for her?" 

"Oh, God, _no_." 

"Yes!" Charlie slaps her thigh. Castiel grins, warmth bubbling up in his stomach. "I'd always escape as quickly as I could, but that could take _hours_. And all this while, I'd try desperately to save face, and April would be leering at me, and everyone else in the store would be laughing - " 

"I remember this," Gabriel says. "You didn't see me, did you?" 

Castiel feels his smile drop. He meets Gabriel's eyes. 

"Cas?" Charlie says. "Are you okay? You don't look too good. Should I - ?" 

"I could do with a glass of water, I think," Castiel gets out. "Would you mind fetching some?" 

"Cool drink. Gotcha." Charlie salutes. "On my way, boss." 

"I should have known," Gabriel says. 

"How long were you _watching_?" 

Gabriel shrugs. He holds up his hand, and counts on his fingers. "Three, four years? Around?" 

"Since - since we were children?" 

Gabriel nods. "Yes," he says, "just so." 

"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "You should have spoken to me. I would have adored you." 

"You think so?" 

"I know so." Castiel reaches out. He half-expects Gabriel's fingers to sift through his, this time, but they remain firm and solid. "We could have been excellent." 

"Just so," Gabriel reminds him, with the quirk of a smile. 

"Just so," Castiel echoes. 

 

.

 

_December 25, 1915_

 

In the reserve trench, they lie beneath the sentinels - slumped on walls, catching faint breaths in the moonlight.

"You know," Gabriel says, "there's a road, half a mile away from here. It wouldn't be too long a walk."

"Yes?" Castiel closes his eyes, head lolling back. "And when we reached it, what would we do?"

"Go, I suppose." Gabriel shrugs. "Ditch our uniforms. Go to a village. Find ourselves some girls." He flashes that familiar grin. All too soon, it's gone again. War is wearying - there's no time for such simple things as smiles.

"Desert, you mean," Castiel says. "Finish what Lucifer started."

"Uriel was a fool to go along with it."

"We don't know they were caught."

"That's not the point."

And it isn't - the point is, they didn't take us, too. The words sit, unspoken between them - lead weights, in a stormy sea.

(Castiel never had liked his language.)

"Balthazar would have something to say, about all this."

"Balthazar would have something to say about everything." Castiel's lip draw upwards. "What, a smile, sir? I thought I'd never see it again."

"Shut it, you. It'll be our turn on watch, in a minute." Overhead, the moon draws near. Gabriel cranes his neck up, eyes following it.

"Must be midnight, now." Stretching out an arm, he holds it upwards, fingers splaying - almost as though he could catch the moon itself, and all the stars with it. "Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Gabriel," Castiel says - and Gabriel smiles.

"Merry Christmas, Cassy."

Castiel grins in return - or, at least, he would, if his mouth wasn't so heavy. Sinking back against the wall of the dug-out, he closes his eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," he says.

Behind him, Gabriel coughs. Castiel rubs a hand over his own running nose. His skin prickles.

"What do you want? For a gift. Obviously, not a real gift, but - we can use our imaginations." Castiel hesitates, for a moment. "And if you say 'to go home', you sentimental-"

"A garden," Castiel says. "Petunias. Marigolds. Larkspur. Daisies. Hyacinths. Dandelions! I - I want so many dandelions, I'm buried in them! And - and-"

Gabriel's eyes are narrowing, but he says, "Tulips."

"And tulips!"

Gabriel begins to grin, slightly. Castiel's thigh itches; he plucks at it.

"And wisteria! And hollyhocks!" Gabriel says.

"And violets, and - and roses! And - "

 

.

 

_July 9, 1979_

 

The wisteria have stopped flowering, now.

 

 

**X**

 

_Fact:_

_Spring is the best time to plant lavender. This plant is ideal for a low hedge, or border; it is available in many different colours, such as blue, white, purple and pink. Naturally, insects adore it!_

 

.

 

_March 10, 1979_

 

"I don't need a doctor."

Sam sighs. He's been doing that a lot, lately. "He's not a doctor. He's a psychiatrist."

"Doctor, shrink, whatever. I don't need it." Tearing the bag open, Dean glares at it. "Knew there was a reason you were giving me sweets."

Sam rubs his eyes. "I think it'll help. Crowley's meant to be a specialist in his field. I got him recommended to me by the - the librarian, I think - ah - Mr - err-"

Dean leans back, and pops a flying saucer into his mouth.

"Crowley?" he says. What kind of a name's that?"

"I don't know," Sam says. "German, maybe?" 

 

 

.

 

_March 19, 1979_

 

 The librarian isn't there, when Dean rolls on by. He says rolls - means struts in. He struts. He glides. He swoops. He pulls out a chair, and hops onto it, swinging his legs over the side.

The Bentley's still there, just out the window. Dean puts his head back. He waits.

He is going to wait. Today, he is going to wait. Today - today, and today, and today, and tomorrow, until someone - anyone - comes. Unless Mr Bentley's taking up all their attention, it can't possibly be too long.

Dean puts his legs straight, and crosses his hands over.

The ceiling's practically held up by books. They're in teetering piles - practically falling off one another. Dean can't help but imagine them bouncing down, in a kind of book avalanche. It'd be big. It'd be impressive.

He is going to wait. Today, he is going to wait. Today - today, and today, and today, and tomorrow.

Whoever owns that Bentley must be real fond of this place.

 

.

 

_March 21, 1980_

 

Sam invites him round to dinner. Dean shakes his head. He wants to refuse. He'd much rather spend the evening in, talking to the ceiling. As it turns out, the offer's non-negotiable.

The jacket's too big on him; he stands straight, trying to pull down the cuffs. "How do I look, Cas?"

No response. Of course not. That would be entirely unreasonable. Dean turns away; turns back. The mirror has fogged over. He wipes his hand down one edge, so that he can see his profile. 

Dean tugs on the lapels, and turns to the side. "Swish," he says, in his best movie voice. "Hello, Mr Bond. Yes, I'm good, thank you. And yourself?" 

  

.

 

It seems that Sam had ulterior motives for asking him to visit. Her name is Jess, and she's got blonde hair, and blue eyes. (Sam likes that kind of thing. Personally, Dean prefers brunettes.)

He shakes her hand politely, and eats meat and two veg, cooked by Sam's own fair hand. They make jokes about the awfulness of it; the lamb is leathery, the greens are barely green, the potatoes are raw. Even Sam concedes, in the end.

Jess eats every bite. Dean notices.

 

 

"So, Dean," Jess says, cutting a sliver out of her second potato, "what do you do?"

There's a little bit of wine, bubbling in Dean's chest. It's a warm evening; clear skies. He leans forward, and Jess does, too - like they're sharing some kinda secret.

"He's a gardener," Sam supplies. "He worked at Greenvale."

"Principal Walker kicked me out."

Jess pulls a face, and taps his hand. "Ass," she says.

"Ass," Sam agrees.

"You need a lawn mowing, I'm your man."

Jess laughs - high and thinking, like bells. "I'll bear that in mind."

Sam coughs. Loudly. Jess grins at him. Dean can see the sweep of her upper-arms, below her top.

"The thing is, I - I had this friend. And he was - he loved it. Plants, and flowers, and - and what they meant. What they stood for."

Dean skewers (what he hopes is) some kind of brown carrot, and soaks it in gravy. It practically floats.

"Dean," Sam says, slowly, "we-"

"Your friend," Jess cuts in, "is he the one you met? After you had the accident. Sam-"

The table cloth is white, with red squares.

"Yeah. He was."

Jess nods. "What was he like?"

Sam's staring at her as though she's grown a second head, or something. Dean can't blame him.

"He - he was..." Dean takes a breath. Another. Everything seems tighter, all of a sudden. "He was Castiel. That's who he was."

Another nod.

"Castiel," Jess says. "Odd name."

"Couldn't dream it up," Dean agrees.

After that, they eat in silence.

 

 

At the end of the night, Dean pulls Sam in for a hug. Sam stiffens, for a moment, in surprise. His hair brushes Dean's cheek. The hall-light's swinging just above him. 

"She likes you," Dean murmurs, "go for it."

When Sam steps back, he's grinning.

From the doorway, Sam waves, with an arm around Jess's slim waist. Dean returns it, and tries his level best not to choke.

 

.

 

_September 9, 1911_

 

It is a constant pressure, on the left-hand side of his chest. It is a constant pressure, on the right-hand side of his mouth; where his tongue flicks into the gap, and leaves blood. It is lying alone at night, where there should be someone beside you. It is the hollow sensation. It is the emptiness.

That's how people know they're dying. It's when there's nothing else left inside, and nowhere else left to go.

"Do you miss your family?" Castiel asks him. It is a morning; it is early. Dean's sitting against the wall. There is an apple, in his hands. He turns it over; blows dust off it.

It's the taste of beer. It's the taste of apple pie. It's a hand in yours, and breath on your neck, and blood in your bones. It's floppy hair, and a crackling laugh, and pretty girls in summer dresses, and shears in your hands. It's listening to the radio with the person you love most in the world, and buttercups on your lawn.

"What do you think?" Dean says.

 

.

 

_April 2, 1980_

 

It isn't a long walk. Not really. Just down the hill - a couple of hundred metres, a few thousand turns. Nothing major. A couple of feet of common daisies, and grass. They're drooping, now - not enough water for them to grow properly.

Dean's heartbeat is scudding in his throat, by the time he arrives. It's cold, somehow.

 

.

 

_March 11, 1979_

 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Winchester."

The seat's too hard. It makes Dean shift. "Likewise."

On the wall behind Mr Crowley's head, there's a stuffed salmon. It's peering at him, with one beady little eye. The eye is made out of glass, and is round. If Dean angles his head just so, it catches the light.

"The first thing I'd like to say, is that everything you tell me here is completely confidential. I won't tell your brother, I won't tell your friends. This is between you, and me."

Crowley looks like a mole. Short, and round, and stubby - black, pointed suit, and black, pointed glasses. His eyes are like the fish's.

"Unless it's in my best interests."

Crowley smiles. It stretches over his cheeks. "Of course," he says.

 

.

 

_April 2, 1980_

 

Charlie answers the door in her pyjamas.

"Dean. Hey." Crossing her arms over her chest, she slumps sideways against the frame. "Not that I don't love you, or anything, but - it's four am. You could've given me some warning. I mean, seriously. A girl's gotta get her beauty sleep."

"You're good with people," Dean says. "You said you had that - that reporter friend. Benny."

Charlie blinks. "Err - yeah. Yeah, I did."

"I need you to call him. I - I need to start a petition."

"You want signatures," she says.

"Hm."

Behind her, there's a wall of vines. They tangle; they twist. They're green, and brown. Boston Ivy - Cape Ivy?

"Why can't you go to Sam?"

They tangle; they twist.

"I can't go to Sam," Dean gets out.

Charlie hums. "Why?"

"It's - I - I can't go to Sam. He's - we're-"

"Having trouble?"

"Yeah." Dean coughs; shuffles his feet. "Look...I know I haven't been the greatest friend, lately, but-"

"Two months, Dean. You were out for two whole months. And then you come back, and you want to go haring round the country, searching for a guy who may or may not exist...and then it turns out to be Cas! Great! Whoopee for you! And you two run off to the mystery chalet, and the next thing I know, he's dead!"

Dean flinches.

Charlie claps a hand over her lips. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'm-"

"Hey. Hey, you're right. I didn't think it through. It's just..." Dean looks to the linoleum. It doesn't help him. "Have you ever wanted someone so badly, you think you're gonna burst? And you think you're never gonna get them, 'cause...'cause they're just a kid, and then they're...they're from 1915, and..."

Dean breaks off into a laugh. "God, this is stupid. It's just that l couldn't lose him, Charlie. Not again. So, yeah, I wanted him to myself. And I'm sorry for that. I am. Less than I should be, probably, but I am. I'm - I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got in this stupid mess, and I'm sorry I'm broken, and I'm sorry I dug myself into a hole, and I can't get out. I'm sorry."

Before he can speak again, there are arms, encircling his waist, and a face pressed against his chest. Dean gasps - inhales. Charlie smells of leather, and old books, and apple shampoo. She's wearing a blue t-shirt, with a guitar on the front, and purple shorts. They have yellow fronds on the bottom.

"You should tell Sam," she says.

Dean sighs.

"I can't. I can't. He just - he don't - he doesn't get it. Yeah, he's my brother - and yeah, I love him - but - he doesn't-"

"Get it?"

Dean nods.

Charlie steps back, eyes him up once, and slaps him. "Get over yourself! He's your brother!"

Dean reels back, clutching his cheek. "Ow!"

Charlie narrow her eyes. "You deserved it," she says. Talk to him. Now. And if you don't, I swear to God, I'll - I'll trample your garden!"

Her tone is mutinous. Dean feels faintly betrayed.

 

**XI**

 

_August 30, 1915_

 

The walls of the trench rock, and creak. There's a humming, in the air - of a thousand starlings, sizzling within the wire.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Castiel stoops on the ground, and listens to the bombs fall. He can taste vomit, in his throat. His chest's drawn up right and proper - like there are strings around his chest, squeezing tight with the weight of the clothes, and the buckles, and the guns.

All above him, there is dark. The sky's the colour of pitch. Somebody's tipped jam all over it; it seeps into the cracks, and the crevices.

Uriel's hands graze and clutch. He's holding a cigarette, between fumbling fingers. It's ground to a pulp. Castiel's stomach growls.

Bang.

The sky is lit with flashes of orange, and red, and gold - and it is broad, and purple-hewn, casting its rays across the dark like dawn. The world shakes, from side to side; and they're in a box, in the middle of the ground, and there isn't a way out of it.

He is going to die here, in this hole in the ground. He is going to die, with the shaking and the creaking and the moaning, and his thundering heart, and the taste of bile, and Gabriel and Lucifer and Uriel, and there is nothing he can do about it.

It is one of the most terrifying things Castiel has ever seen in his life.

"It's beautiful," Castiel says. "It's just - it's so bright-"

Bang - Gabriel's hand on his jacket, fingers making holes, dragging him down. Sizzling, sweating, cooking. There are beads of perspiration, on his forehead.

In Castiel's chest, his heart thunders. Bang. Bang. Bang.

He grabs hold of Gabriel's gloved fingers, and doesn't let go.

Bang. Bang.

B - - - - - -

 

.

 

_August 14, 1979_

 

Castiel doesn't have breakfast. He doesn't have lunch. He doesn't go shopping.

He sits in his chair, with his eyes closed.

"Cas," Gabriel says, but no more.

"He used to call me that," Castiel replies.

Gabriel doesn't speak.

"Is he dead?" Castiel says. "Is he?"

Gabriel doesn't speak. On the wall, the clock ticks. The carpet is scudded with chair stains.

"I missed him," Castiel says - whispers, almost. "I did."

Gabriel sighs - long, and low. "But you didn't try."

"I was building a life, Gabriel. A life." Castiel closes his eyes. "He wanted to be happy. Without me. He told me that he needed freedom."

"So you let him go."

The words are empty. Hollow.

Castiel swallows. "I released him," he says.

When he looks up, Gabriel is gone.

"He told me that he needed freedom," Castiel says. "And he did. He had to go. I had to let him go."

 

.

 

_July 29, 1904_

 

Castiel's birthday is a quiet affair. Hannah makes him a cake. Mother holds his hands steady, and he cuts the first slice. Anna laughs, and claps her hands. She gets the cake all over her face. She's messy. Castiel doesn't like it.

Father gives him a pile of books. They're familiar, and they smell of him. Mother pats his head, and ruffles his hair, and tells him that he is her special child, and that she will look after him. She means it.

Joshua shells peas. He sits on a stool, and watches.

Castiel is on Father's knee, even though he is too old for it, nowadays.

Afterwards, Father smokes, and Mother goes to her room, and Hannah takes Anna upstairs, and Castiel sits in the middle of the drawing room. The books have pictures of birds in them. Their wings are open, in flight. There are men with the heads of beasts, and lions and tigers, and swords. There is a big, black chariot, and a big, black hole.

Father and Joshua smoke together, outside. Joshua lights Father's cigarettes. Castiel can see them, through the partly-open door. He sits against the wall, and rests the book in front of his feet, wide open.

Father is talking quickly. His hand is moving, and he is smiling, and he is leaning forwards. The pipe is hanging from between his teeth, clenched tight, and he takes it out, and he gestures with it.

Joshua watches, and smiles, softly. He listens, and Castiel sits beside the wall. He does not move.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"Did I ever take you into town?"

Castiel shakes his head. Charlie stretches out her legs, toes wiggling in orange-pink sandals. Pink and fleshy. Back and forth.

"How often do you go?" she says.

"He's a recluse," Gabriel chimes in, voice dipping up and down, "never leaves. Has this fantastic imaginary friend, though. Really, he's the be-"

"A few times a month. Maybe."

"-charming, witty, devilishly attractive. It's a miracle Cassy's heart's been stole away, or else he'd have it. Completely."

Charlie angles her head towards him, taking it away from the side of his thigh. Gabriel laughs, tipping his head back.

"For anything other than shopping," Charlie says. "As in, to talk to people. Or see people. Or interact with, y'know. People."

"As a pose to what? Dogs?" Castiel says.

Gabriel snorts.

"How do you fancy going down today?"

Castiel's eyes narrow - but Charlie looks such the picture of innocence, in her strappy sun-dress and sandals, that he can only oblige.

"Well enough," he replies.

 

.

 

_November 3, 1915_

 

They soaked their socks in urine, in the beginning. They pissed into buckets, and put the socks inside. Michael watched. Gabriel gagged. Uriel didn't say a word. There were no gloves.

"It'll help," Balthazar said, green as green can be. "One day. One day, we'll all be sitting around the camp fire, and this will be far behind us."

"That's the thing about dying," Castiel gets out. "You tend not to expect it."

Balthazar loved poetry. It was what he lived and breathed; lived and breathed, until the gas came, and they all ran, and a rock came loose, and he slipped. Betrayal. Distrust. Lavender. Wait? No! 

 

 .

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

They walk down together - Charlie pushes her bike, as they talk aimlessly, about anything and everything that pops into their heads, words whistling wildly by. Charlie is the driving force behind the conversation - Castiel would be perfectly contented to stroll along in silence, like he and Dean used to do - just standing there, quiet in each other's company. Castiel had never been happier - at least, he doesn't think so.

 

.

 

_November 3, 1915_

 

It only took a second - and Castiel turned, and grabbed for him - but there were arms around him, Gabriel's arms, yanking him back, pulling the mask over his face - and then Balthazar Buchanan was gone.

He wasn't gone instantly, of course. If only it could be that simple. He spluttered; he gasped; he choked; he screamed - and Lucifer was yelling: "Medic! Medic!"

And he was frantic - so frantic - and Balthazar clawed upwards, and he was looking, looking up, looking towards Castiel - and he reached out a hooked hand - and Castiel reeled back.

He reeled back, and away. The last thing he saw, before Balthazar dropped away, was those eyes - those laughing eyes, which had always sparked before - as he'd jested with Lucifer, and sent retorts across the lines with Gabriel, and passed Uriel a share of the bully beef his sister had sent. (He said he didn't like it; Castiel didn't believe him.)

They weren't the very last thing, of course. The very last thing was mud.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

Gabriel is on his other side, hands behind his back, hands by his sides; striding out, slouching. He is a contradiction in terms. Castiel isn't all that surprised. He learns about Charlie's family; about her straight-laced doctor parents, who live in Florida; about her older brother, who wants to be a violinist, and just missed fighting in Vietnam; about her dog, Pouffy, who still runs to the door when she comes to visit.

"I haven't been for a while, now. I keep meaning to do it, but..."

"But you can't find a way to tell them," Castiel finishes. "I thought it was legal there?"

The sunlight makes Gabriel's coppery curls yellow. He matches Castiel's pace, oddly enough. Maybe they're both getting old, even if Gabriel's face remains the same.

 

.

 

_November 4, 1915_

 

He tried not to think about it, afterwards. Tried not to think, as he dropped back into the trench, three feet away. Three feet. So close. He tried not to think about it - he truly did. Throwing himself into drills. Into training. Into combat. Loading and reloading and firing, without an aim, without a goal. Bang. Bang. Bang.

He tried to forget, in a far off land, with its River Seine and its Wipers (Ypres, Y-pres)- alongside his war-worn comrades, struggling forwards, through the dirt and grime and all-encompassing muck. Bang. Bang. Bang - as Gabriel's eyes lost their shine, ever so slowly, day by day - and as he looked into the water creeping up the walls, over his ankles, and didn't recognise the mud-smeared soldier staring out at him. He glanced away.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"It is." This news only seems to serve to increase Charlie's glumness. "They didn't want it. Keep talking about 'society's degeneration', and 'ethical morality'." Charlie kicks a stone, sending it skittering across the road. "Not exactly the best environment to bring the l-word up in."

"You could just make it blatantly obvious. Grab the nearest girl, and kiss her. That should cause a stir." Charlie snorts with unexpected laughter, eyes widening. Castiel holds up his hands. "I'm simply stating a fact."

Gabriel slaps his shoulder, sending warm tingles through it.

"You really are something, you know that?" Charlie says.

 

.

 

_November 4, 1915_

 

(Then again, lavender also means devotion.)

Castiel tried to forget.

He did not succeed.

So, instead, he lavished in green eyes - in freckles - in half-forgotten glances, and significant looks, and a rough voice, low and as old as the hills - and, sitting in a medical tent, a bandage being wrapped around his left hand (the fault of barbed wire, no doubt), he too, out a sheet of paper, smoothed it on his lap, and began to draw.

It did not take long.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

The edge of town approaches. Clouds line the skyline; red and peach and orange and gold, on a background of - well, blue. Sunlight rims them, leaving imprints on Castiel's vision; swirling shapes and visions, of laced edges and tight smiles and close friends, right beside him. There are wild daisies, growing on the roadside, peeking up through the mud and grass.

"I like to think so," he replies, and says no more about it.

 

.

 

_February 29, 1916 - Artois: La Basseé-Lens, France._

 

They do not go to Verdun, in the end, like everyone said they would. They fight in the northern region of the Western front - the coal-mining district.

Castiel brings his gun forward, and fires. The man falls, clutching at his chest; another rises up, over the crest of the hill. He screams a name - his comrade's, it can be presumed. Castiel runs to meet him, and jabs the butt of the rifle into his neck.  
The man's fast. He grabs at the Enfield, and pulls the trigger. Bang - one shot, upwards. Bang - another shot, somewhere to the left. Not one of his - somebody else's gun.

There are miner's cottages in clumps. There are pit-heads, and slag-holes. Unless you're a mountain pony, it's bloody difficult to get around at all.

The miners, Castiel thinks, must have had small feet.

They advance around five metres, before they are forced back. There are two charges - one after another. Castiel loses track of the number of times he fires.

When he arrives back, tumbling down the ladder, Castiel ducks - reaches up, and puts his hands over his head.

Breath in. Breath out.

(There has been a gas attack, in another part of the trenches.

Stoker - or Striker, or whatever his name was - has been killed.)

When they hear about Verdun, it's too late for them to do anything at all. According to Gabriel, hunched over the camp-fire at night, it's a bloody nightmare.

 

_The Dead Boar Corner Gazette. Souvenir Number. Price One Franc._

_A Bi-Weekly Journal of Breezy Comment._

"Frogs and Boches going at it, all the live-long day, Zachariah said. Too many deaths to count." Gabriel moves on his perch, pushing his hair behind his ears. Castiel takes a drag of his cigarette, and tries not to cough. Between them, the newspaper sits, pages folded open.

 _VICTORIOUS AGAIN_ , the headline reads.

"You're hair's growing out," Castiel says, at last.

Gabriel pulls a face. "How many chats?" he asks. A plane goes overhead, moaning and groaning. The sound echoes.

 

_Honour roll of the Battalion_

_Awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal - 10678 Lance-Sergeant P. Dobbs, and 10534 Private S. Smoker._

_Mentioned in Sir John French's Dispatch (February 28, 1916) - Col. A. Dobbs, killed in action; Lance-Sergeant B. Milliner, killed in action._

_The Military Cross - Lieutenant Michael P. Howard._

 

"How did you know?"

Gabriel stares. Castiel sighs.

"Twenty six lice, today. And counting."

"Twenty three," Gabriel responds. "And I haven't looked at my legs."

"Do you want me to?"

For a second, Gabriel's face turns pale. He smiles, though. "Nah. Think I'll survive."

"If you're sure," Castiel says. "Corporal."

"Lance-Corporal. And I'm watching your back."

"Lance-Jack."

"Still watching, Novak. Still waiting. Waiting for my chance."

"Your chance at revenge will never come. I am crafty. I can hide."

"The day you become crafty, I'll mutiny."

"Good pay for mutineers, I gather?"

"Oh, absolutely. There's a cunning little scheme set up. We'll be rich."

"I'll wait for the day."

 

.

 

_July 29, 1904_

 

Joshua has a present for him. He tells Castiel this in the garden. He is sitting beside Father, and he is quieter than usual. Castiel says this, and Father laughs, a little. Castiel thinks that he has done something good, and Joshua does not smile.

"This is for you," Joshua says, "mister Cas."

It is a book. It is a small book. Castiel can hold it, and as such, it must be small.

"It'll help, Castiel," Father says. "In the future. Look after it."

And he sounds so sure, in that moment, that Castiel looks up at him. He has a pipe between his teeth, and the sun is setting behind him. There is a cloud of smoke, and it tastes bad, and Castiel coughs. Father and Joshua are puffing like steam-engines. Castiel has seen pictures of trains, in Father's books.

"Take care," Joshua says. "Don't go fallin' down anywhere."

"I won't," Castiel promises, and runs away to find Anna. She isn't nearly as impressed as he thought she might be. 

 

.

 

_November 13, 1915_

 

Lucifer's desertion doesn't come without warning. It's been on the cards for a while - in the whispers, the significant glances, the sudden silences that settle in an instant. Ever since Balthazar left them behind, Castiel had known - deep down - that Lucifer wouldn't last much longer.

It's still a surprise when it arrives.

They're in the reserve trenches. Castiel's wading through water, feeling his boots grow cold, holding his rifle above it - because naturally, his precious Lee Enfield is that important. More important than his feet, at least.

Sometimes, Castiel finds himself thinking about it - succumbing to trench foot, having them amputated, going home. Home. Dean. He never entertains the idea for long; he's seen the pain that comes with it, the boils, the swelling. He's seen the madness.

Castiel's wading through the water - and there, on top of the trench, some victorious angel, is Lucifer. He's crouching low - and he looks down, and he sees Castiel. He stares into his eyes, this angel - and he doesn't look away, even as his throat bobs, and he fears - he fears for himself, and for everything he has to lose.

And Castiel looks at him - up there, on his frozen barricade, charging to victory - and he does nothing, brown hair wafting in the slight breeze. He has a pimple on his upper lip. He has yellowing teeth. He smokes.

A figure approaches; a voice says: "Lucifer, I - oh." Uriel stands tall; his body is tight, taut as a bowstring. He's never seemed afraid. Castiel never thought he was. "Castiel."

It appears that Castiel was incorrect in that assumption.

"Hello? What's this, then?"

A head emerges from the dug-out - and Lucifer freezes, stock-still, all colour dropping away from his skin, leaving him milk-white. Castiel turns - but what can he do? He can hardly stop Gabriel now - and then he's out, and peering upwards - and his eyes take in the urgency, and the kit bags, and Lucifer's face. Gabriel's smile forms. When it returns, it is crooked enough to make Castiel ache.

"Gabriel," Lucifer breathes - and it is a breath, and nothing more.

In the background, Castiel can see the sun - above them, obstinately shining onwards. Yet another sentinel, marking their progress into oblivion - into the void, which ends with leaving. Abandonment. Desolation.

He was never a poet, really.

Gabriel's lip rises. "Don't let me stop you, brother." Raising his hand to his forehead, he salutes - short, and sharp, and mocking. "Sir."

From inside, there is a scuffle. Somebody is laughing. It could be Samandriel. It could be Zachariah.

And Lucifer swallows - once - and then Uriel's gone, down over the side - and Gabriel's lips part, but then Lucifer's turning, and ducks, and dips away.

Gabriel doesn't move, for a moment. Castiel places a hand on his shoulder; and he brushes it off, and turns his back, and strides away - and Castiel is left alone (and he can do nothing). Entirely and utterly alone.

Among the clouds above, a plane swoops and rises, silhouetted in silver - and somewhere out there, Dean Winchester is waiting for him to come home. And he will. He will. He will. Irises, for wisdom. Lilies, for falsehood. Daisies; innocence; purity; loyal love; I'll never tell. I'll never tell. Never. Never.

He was never a poet, really.

It takes half a minute, in all. It's a miracle that nobody else sees. Some small victory it seems.

 

.

 

_Wisteria (wisteria)_

_Wisteria is a genus of flowering plants, within the pea family. It includes ten species of vines, native to China and the Eastern United States. In the Northern hemisphere, the growing season for wisteria is June, July and August._

_They stand for a number of things, including the duality of love, exploration, and victory over hardship._


	5. Chapter 5

**XII**

 

_Fact:_

_You must position plants where they will be required during the summer months. This reduces the risk of damaging their roots._

 

.

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

There's a storm blowing up, and there's a kid in front of him. He's lying, curled up, on the ground. There's rain, trickling across his forehead; he's literally lying in a puddle, in blue cotton pyjamas. He must be soaked. He must be frozen. His arm's splayed out an an angle.

He isn't moving.

"Hey!" Dean starts to run; faster and faster and faster, and then he's crouching down, knees scraping the path, or the road, or whatever the hell this is.

The kid's pale; there are dark hollows, underneath his eyes. His nose is red, and he's just lying down, like it's a perfectly normal thing to do. It can't be good, to be...that...that. Dean's hands hover, for a moment - and then he's shaking the kid, back and forth, rocking him.

"Come on. Come on. Can you hear me? Hello?" No movement. "Hello?" 

Dean pulls him up; tugs him in, and rubs his back, trying to suck warmth from the surroundings in, and in, and in. The kid's gotta move.

Dean doesn't know what to do when somebody's barely breathing. It's not a situation you commonly find yourself in, is sitting there - waiting and waiting and waiting, breath taut. Waiting and waiting. 

"Come on," Dean says, and tugs him close. The kid's heartbeat stutters against his chest. It shakes. He's like a bird, all bony and tight and weird. "Come on. Come on. Stay with me, buddy. Sam! Sam, get over here!" 

No reply - and the kid's not moving. His elbow digs into the gap between Dean's arm and side. His breath puffs. 

 

.

 

_March 20, 1979_

 

When Dean arrives at the library, his cheek is still stinging. He takes up his usual seat, sinking into it. Somebody's moved the book-pile he made - but it's alright, because there are a few left on the back shelf. Facts and figures. Figures and facts. Life expectancy.

Dean has not seen those books before.

The bottle's still got a couple inches left in it, too.

 

.

 

_January 17, 1979_

 

"I'm not sick."

Crowley stares at him, folding his fingertips together. "No," he says.

Dean nods. "Just so we're clear."

"But you need help."

Dean shakes his head. "I don't."

"Then why are you here?"

Crowley's wearing a dark suit, and dark glasses. He looks the same as last time.

"My brother," Dean says. "He - asked me to."

"Asked you?"

"Made me."

Crowley nods, and picks up his pad. It's black, too, with grey bindings. Something about it makes Dean's stomach turn cold. It has a picture of an elephant on the front.

 

.

 

_March 20, 1979_

 

Apparently, there were approximately 1115000 casualties at the Battle of the Somme. Of these, 630000 were German, and 485000 were British and French.

In the Battle of Ypres, there were around 134000 German casualties, and 46000 British. Out of the British, 8000 men were killed. Fatalities.

The Battle of the Marne: 263000 casualties, across three sides; British, French, German. 82000 dead.

Total number of British military fatalities in World War One: around 400000. Total number of deaths from all forces: around ten million.

 

.

 

_January 17, 1979_

 

"What're you writing?"

Crowley's brow rises. "We're not here to talk about me."

"And we ain't talkin' about me, either. So."

"It appears we're at an impasse, Mr Winchester."

"Looks that way."

 

.

 

_March 20, 1979_

 

The sidewalk is slippery, and red. Dean hurls his guts up onto it.

If this was a movie, there'd be a bin he could empty himself into, or some kind of convenient bush. As it is, Dean bends double over the gutter, and retches. He can taste the beer, in his mouth, at the back of his throat. He gags; over, and over, and over again, until his stomach's empty, and he can't taste anything but copper.

The librarian hurries past him, face pinched and twisted with - something. He's wearing a long, grey coat, and a jumper, and a scarf. Got a bit of a pot-belly; eaten a little too much, a little too fast. Dean offers him a wave, before turning back, and vomiting again.

 

.

 

When Sam turns up, Dean's sitting on the step, with his head in his hands. Sam's face is stony.

"Get in," he says.

Dean does.

 

.

 

Sam doesn't speak, as he drives.

"Nice shoes," Dean blurts out.

"Don't," Sam says. "Just - don't, okay? We'll deal with this when we get home."

Dean folds his arms over his chest. "Didn't know there was anything to deal with."

"You're seeing the doctor," Sam says. "And this time, I'm sitting in with you."

"I don't need meds!"

Sam grips the steering wheel, tight. "That's what you said. And I believed you. But it's - this isn't normal, Dean. It's not normal for you to be killing yourself."

"I ain't dead. Yet."

"Yet," Sam echoes.

"There's nothing wrong with my head, Sam. I'm fine."

"You know how I found you, Dean? I got a call. From your therapist. Apparently, you'd cancelled the sessions, and would I like a refund? And then - get this - you'd said you were going to the library."

Dean flinches - fumes. "That sneaky little-"

"You haven't read since I was ten years old."

"I do," Dean says. "Sometimes."

Sam exhales. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"Fine. Last book you finished. Finished."

Dean opens his mouth.

"And comics don't count."

Dean closes his mouth.

"The - the British Boy's Guide to Basic Botany. From Around the Globe."

Sam looks across, mouth hanging open. There's a piece of salad, lodged in-between his two front teeth. He looks like he's shaved.

"What?"

"Were you on another date? Man. You're really gettin' some, ain't you?"

"What did you just say?"

Dean signs, letting his eyes fall shut. The car seat pillows the back of his head. There's a warmth, spreading through his arms and his legs and his chest and the balls of his feet - and he's tired, so tired, and he just wants it all to go.

"I read it to him. To Cas. My Cas. He - he was eighteen, and..." Dean's hands curl into fists, in his jacket pocket. His knuckles scrape against the lining. They're probably puncturing holes. "He couldn't get to sleep, so I read it to him."

Sam's silent. Mercifully.

"You wanna know where I've been, Sammy? I've been at the library, tryin' to find out when he goddamn died. He could've been - blown up, or gassed, or shot, or - or anythin'. And I don't know. That's the hardest part, ain't it? Not knowing. I don't - I don't-"

Dean's surprised to find his voice breaking.

"Dean," Sam says, and he says it again, and again. "Dean. Dean."

Dean swallows; but his throat's stuck. There's a ringing in his ears, and his face is warm. His cheeks are wet.

"I can't look at plants. I can't garden, I can't grow, I can't - I can't do my job. All I've got is - this. This - thing. I dunno what I'm supposed to call it, or do about it, but - it's what I have. Okay? I can't be anything else, anymore. And I'm sorry if that's not what you want right now, but you're not the one this is happenin' to. It's me. This is my fault, and I - I'm gonna fix it. I just need time."

Sam's face is a mess of taut lines, and drawn brows. The windscreen wipers click against the screen, rocking back and forth.

"You've got me," he says.

The car goes over a pothole, shaking from side to side. Sam's left hand rubs holes into the knee of his jeans.

Dean closes his eyes again.

 

.

 

_April 3, 1980_

 

Dean is lying on his bed. The covers are underneath him. Overhead, the fan is spinning. Sam has left the air conditioning on. There is a spot of mould, in the top right-hand corner.

He's crying out. He's crying. He buries his face in his hands, and scrubs at his eyes. They come away dry. He breathes in. Breathes out. Breathes in.

 

.

 

_January 22, 1910_

 

He carries the kid down the road. He's a dead weight; but he's moaning, eyelids fluttering, and that's a good thing, right? So, Dean walks - and walks, and walks, legs straining, arms aching - and it hurts, it all hurts, but if there's a path, there has to be an end to it, and the kid must have been running from somewhere - and if not, well, there's always the Impala, once he has a chance to find it.

By the time he arrives, sunlight's spilling over the treetops, casting the dirt before him brown. Dean stumbles - and the door's open, and there's a girl outside, and she's looking right past him - and Dean sets the kid down, and his knees give out.

When he wakes, he's still in the entryway. His mouth tastes of bile. He spits, all over the floor. When he stands, he sways. His head is spinning. His hands are buzzing. He has drunk too much coffee. He has drunk too much wine. The sun is full, overhead. The kid's gone. 

Dean kneels down, and shoves open the door, and stands back up. He sways. He grips the doorframe. There's something building up in his chest - like a wave. Or a wall. It makes him sick. 

 

**XIII**

 

_Iris (iris)_

_Iris is a family of approximately two hundred and eighty species. It takes its name from the Greek word of rainbow, due to its exotic colours, and wide leaves. All across the world, it is a popular garden flower. Irises are perennial, and many are native to the Meditteranean, and normally have around six lobe-shaped flowers._

_Irises symbolise wisdom, and passage into another life. In Acient Greek mythology, the goddess Iris was meant to provide passage between heaven and earth. Purple irises were planted over women's graves, to help them on the path to Heaven._

 

.

 

_September 31, 1915_

 

They help to bury the bodies. The work is tepid, and rancid. There is mud, all over their hands - up to the elbows. The dirt scrapes, and slides. It is cloying. Clay.

Castiel recognises some of them. He sticks his spade in his foot, at one point. Gabriel laughs. Nobody else does.

They lay them in head to foot, at first - and they can still see all of them, all of them. And then somebody - Raphael, Michael - says again, and there are more and more, flopping down over the edges - fish in a barrel, flip-flopping around.

Balthazar has turned white. He's gripping the edge of his trowel, like it's going to do anything to steady him. There's nothing to be steadied, really. He's all skin and bone, with shorn-short hair.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"Charlie, where are we?"

Charlie grins at him. There's a smattering of freckles, lining the bridge of her nose. Castiel has to catch his breath. From the edge of the porch, leaning against a pole, Gabriel's body begins to shake with silent laughter; he rustles, but doesn't make any other sound. Like a leaf, Castiel thinks, scowling at him.

"Best place on Earth, old man." Charlie points towards it; the neon sign glows above their heads. A small gust of wind blows down the street, shaking clipped hedges. Castiel steps out of the way of a can, as it clatters along the ground. Charlie's red curls blow in the wind, blazing out behind her. "Welcome to the arcade," she proclaims, and drags him forwards, hands locking around his arm.

Through the door, Castiel can make out figures - and noises, beeps and clicks - and people, pushing against one another - and they're all, without a doubt, at least fifty years younger than him. Castiel grinds his heels in before he can think. Charlie pouts at him.

"Come on! It'll be fun!"

"Why don't we go somewhere else?" Castiel asks, voice rising in pitch, "Or you show me your D&D? We could-" Charlie rolls her eyes, pointedly.

Behind her, Gabriel peers inside curiously. "Seems alright to me," he observes, "fun place. Pretty girls." The man stares at him, eyes widening to comic proportions. "Can't we go in, Cassy? Plleeeassseee?"

"For the last time, we don't play that! Look, Cas..." She releases him, holding her palms up, and then shoving curled fists downwards. "I need you, alright? I need you for this. And if you wanna go, that's fine. Just...go." Castiel hesitates. Charlie grinds her teeth together. "Go!" Castiel stops - takes a breath - doesn't move. Shakes his head.

"No. I...I will do this, for you."

Charlie swallows, blunt nails digging into her skin. Anna's were longer, Castiel remembers - but Charlie isn't Anna. Not really. She's someone else entirely - someone with thoughts, and hopes, and dreams. Charlie Bradbury wants to be a writer. Charlie Bradbury wants to win a girl's heart. Charlie Bradbury wants to play arcade games with him - and he'll be damned if he isn't going to do it.

In a moment of blind weakness, Castiel takes a breath - takes a breath - takes a breath, as the sun shines down, and the trash cans click together.

"Alright," he says - and Charlie grabs his arm, and, before he can form a suitable protestation, shoves open the door.

 

.

 

_November 9, 1915_

 

_Dear Anna,_

_I am sorry it has taken this long to write to you. We've been so terribly busy, I can hardly begin to describe it - it was somewhat difficult to get hold of supplies. I don't want to waste them, so I won't waffle on for any longer than necessary. I'm sure you don't want to hear about that, anyway._

 

Castiel chews on the end of his pencil, nibbling it. Above, the rain pours down, in thick, heavy sheets. It splashes downwards.

 

_The weather is a little wet, but passable - the men much the same, in their attitudes. I fear a few may be losing heart; Uriel especially, although Lucifer hasn't been himself, recently. Thank God for Gabriel - sometimes, he seems like the only one of us who still has the capacity for happiness._

_At the moment, I have the good fortune to be in a reserve trench, awaiting my term at the front. The company is decidedly pleasant, although there is little positive to be said about the food. Last night, we shared an orange between the four of us._

 

Castiel pauses. The pen hovers, as water falls. If it goes on for much longer, the trench will flood, again - and that leads to trench foot, and that's never good. One of the other soldiers squelches past, boots slapping against puddles. He's young, with a bandage over his hand - much like Castiel's own. Castiel doesn't recognise him.

 

_We lost Balthazar, a few days ago._

 

Castiel halts again, drawing a line across the page. It jumps.

In the cracks of the mud, a frond of gras sprouts. It is brown. It could be a marigold, or a daffodil, or a rose. Castiel likes roses.

 

_I'm sorry to be so dreadfully maudlin. It's just that it seems too soon, in a way. There are men who have been here since 1914 and survived without a scratch. We arrived only this spring, and already, Michael and Balthazar have been taken. It seems unjust, to me. And there may be another twelve months of this, yet._

_On a more positive note, I have another two weeks before I need return to the fighting. So, my dear sister, how are you? Is everyone faring well at home? Mother and Father have been missing me, no doubt - Mother always seems to fuss. Is she coping? Hannah will have a lot to do._

 

Raphael's voice rises up. Gabriel's knees push against Castiel's.

"Ran out of smokes," he says.

 

_The other day, a German came across to our side of the trench. He asked for a cigarette, and Lucifer gave him one, and then he went away. Nobody fired at him. I think they are getting fed up of it all._

_I would describe more of this to you, but I think that you would not care to hear it. I cannot write about it properly. We pushed the Germans back a mile, almost. It is a cold day._

 

"You? Or Raphael?"

 

_Aside from the lice, nothing much is an issue. I must admit to itchiness. I haven't seen a rat in a few hours, which is always a positive._

_I did not want to write to you. I did not want to say._

 

Gabriel laughs.

 

_I cannot tell you everything I should like to, as it would not reach you. I think about you constantly. My heart is with you, and Mother, and Father, and Dean. I know it would hardly be proper for me to write to a gardener._

_I do love you all. Very, very much._

_Yours,_

_C_

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

The amusement arcade is a nightmare. Castiel feels like every eye is on him - he can feel the stares, hear the hushed whispers - and it's all so familiar, he could picture it with his eyes closed. Not the people, not the consoles - but the looks, the stares. He doesn't meet a single one of them, simply allowing Charlie to lead him where she will.

Light flash above him - bright, and blinding. Charlie stops, before a machine - and he joins her, a few paces away, uncertain. Turning to peek over her shoulder, she beckons him closer with one curled finger, saying: "C'mon, scaredy-cat. What are you so afraid of?"

The mechanisms. The flashes. The artificial colours. The fake flowers on the window ledge.

"This," Castiel says, eyes darting, "people." Charlie snorts. Gabriel mimics her expression, behind her back. It makes Castiel feel slightly better.

"Yeah, right. Chicken." Her hands nimbly work the controls; Castiel narrows his eyes at the screen, hoping that the mess of lines and colours will morph into something - anything - recognisable. It remains stubbornly unsolvable; Gabriel stares over Charlie's shoulder, as she nibbles at her lip, deep in concentration.

"If I pushed her over now, do you think she'd notice?" Gabriel mimes shoving her, fingers halting just short of her back. Castiel rolls his eyes - Charlie plays on, oblivious, a different world dancing before her eyes.

Castiel envies her. He envies it.

He does not say so.

 

**XIV**

 

_Fact:_

_If there is a high amount of moss on your lawn, treat it with moss killer. The moss will turn black, after a few days - do not be alarmed by it._

 

.

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

The kid's gone. Dean staggers to his feet; stares around. The hallway's wide. Dean doesn't think he's seen a place this fancy, before. It's kinda dusty, sure, but it's expensive. Must be hard to keep up. Must be.

The carpet's thick, and the drapes are down.

"Hello?" Dean says. "Anyone? Sam?"

No reply - because Sam ain't here, and there's no one here. Dean can't catch a breath. The light's too bright, in his eyes. He cranes his neck up, blinking through it. Dust motes float in the air. The drapes are taupe.

The staircase is wide, and marble. Dean takes the steps two at a time, vaulting up them. Spinning around the corner, he comes to a halt.

"Damn it," he says, out loud. He can taste something coppery, on his tongue. The inside of his mouth is lumpy, and leaden. It's probably not a good thing - but this isn't a good thing, because he's in somebody else's house, in somebody else's hallway.

The door at the end of the hall is open.

" - shock," somebody is saying. "The combination of it and the fever - it could have been enough to, may I say, alter his mental state."

Dean keeps his footsteps quiet; he keeps his breathing still. He walks to the end of the corridor. He peers inside.

There are three people in the room. One of them is a man - a man with greying hair, and a long nose, and spectacles. He hums under his breath. He sways back and forth, on his feet, and fiddles with a stethoscope. Doctor, Dean thinks.

The second is another man. He's got faintly indistinct features; brown hair, curling at the temples, and lines around his eyes. His suit's too big for him.

The third is the kid from last night. He has bags below his eyes. He's dry, now.

The kid waves to him. Dean waves, too. 

"Hello there," the kid says. "You came back."

Dean nods; he swallows, and turns to the man. "Yeah. Um, sorry, sir, but I found your kid. He was in the road." 

The man's eyes narrow. "Castiel," he says, slowly, "who are you speaking to?"

"Him," Castiel says, and points at Dean's chest, at a point below his chin and above his torso. 

"What?" Dean says. He stares, blank. There's a ringing in his ears, and the man's looking at him, but he's not _seeing_ \- just frowning, and that's not possible. 

"Oh," Castiel says. "This complicates things." 

"What?" Dean repeats. 

 

.

 

_April 4, 1980_

 

This flower should not be in Castiel Novak's garden.

He did not plant it, or grow it, or nurture it. It is in the wrong environment; the soil is barren, on the lawn - good only for moss. It is wrong altogether.

Dean stares at it. He stares some more.

"Well, I'll be damned."

A white daffodil stares back at him, blinking in the light.

Dean doesn't pick it. He trims the hedges, shears heavy in his hands. He doesn't water the flowers. He knows he should.

 

.

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

"What d'you mean, there's no one there? I'm here! Look!"

"I can see you," Castiel points out. Dean nods.

"Yeah, but I'm talking about them, alright?"

Turning a page in his book, Castiel shrugs. Dean can't make out the title - something about plants, maybe? It's got some decent pictures inside, anyway. The text's pretty small, though.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "Father knows I'm different. He'll understand. Won't you, father?"

The man blinks. "Castiel," he says, "I do, it's - only - I need to discuss this with your mother. Your - you - "

The kid - Castiel - smiles, broadly, and with far too many teeth. "It's only natural," he says, "for me to be myself. And - " 

Dean's gotta give it to the kid - he's got balls. Balls, however, won't help him now.

The man turns pale. "Indeed," he chokes out, and flees. Dean has to press himself into the doorway, to let him pass. The man doesn't look at him. He stands in the doorway. He watches. 

The doctor straightens up, and snaps his bag closed. "A pleasure to meet you, young Mr Novak," he says.

Castiel picks up his book again, but doesn't open it. "I hope not," he says. "I dislike you."

The man blinks. He blinks again. He stares. He coughs.

"Of course," he says, and leaves. Dean steps aside. The man doesn't look at him. Doesn't flatter, doesn't move away, doesn't nod a hello. Nothing.

"Okay," Dean slowly says. "Care to explain what the Hell's going on?"

"I knew you were special," Castiel says, simply. "You found me. Obviously, you're an angel."

Dean snorts. "Angel. Yeah. Right. Why - why can't - "

"I don't know why they can't see you. But I can. And that's what matters, isn't it?"

The man walks back into the room, and kneels beside Castiel's bed, and places their hands together. 

"We will fix this," he says. "I promise you, we will fix this."

"I know," Castiel says. "Daddy, I know that." 

"No. Come on." Dean steps forwards, and grabs the man's shoulder - except the guy steps back, and Dean can't make contact, and he isn't looking. "Hey! Hey! Buddy! I'm right here!" 

Castiel's staring. Dean lunges closer, and goes for another grab. The man doesn't look up. 

"I'm here," Dean says, "I'm right here, God, just. Just look at me. Look at me. I'm here." Dean presses both hands to himself. He can feel his heartbeat. 

"He's good, Daddy. He's an angel." Castiel nods. "I'm sure of it. He's here because Joshua left. He's come to look after us." 

"I ain't no angel," Dean says, but he's drowned out by the man sobbing. He's wracked with tears, bent double over Castiel's bed, hands clenched in the sheets. 

 

.

 

_April 4, 1980_

 

Sam's in the kitchen, when Dean gets home. He hasn't made breakfast. His clothes are all rumpled up.

"Your garden's looking tired," he says.

Dean doesn't look at him. "So?" he says.

Sam nods. His hair reaches his shoulders, now. "We've missed you," he says. "Bobby wants you to come over." 

Dean busies himself in the sink. "He can head up and ask." 

"You're not exactly giving out invites, Dean."  

 

.

 

_April 5, 1980_

 

When Dean does fall asleep, he doesn't dream.

Strike that - he does dream. But he doesn't _remember_ dreaming.

Dean dreams about a garbage can, filled with leaves. He's piling them into the can, one after another. He's wearing gloves, but they're worn through. Spines prick, and tingle. Dean slips one of them off, and bites down on his finger. He can taste blood, in his mouth, as a pose to - where? Where else would you taste it?

He dreams about a tunnel, with a long, yellow light at the end of it. He dreams about a department store window, with cans of baked beans and gardenias and tulips and wisteria floribunda inside - and they climb up the walls, and they smother everything and anything else.

He dreams of a white-picket fence, around a little white house. He dreams of rainfall in the summer. He dreams of petunias and marigolds and sunflowers - places them in pots, singing _goodbye baby, baby goodbye, ooh -_

_Love is blind._

_There is music in the midst of desolation._

He dreams about a large, red-brick hall, with large, red-brick walls - and he dreams about a smoking chimney, and a smoking engine, and jagged showers of gold-tinged sparks.

He dreams about a light, on the side of the road - bright, and white, and glowing.

He dreams about a snowfall, where the ground is hard and his breath smokes, and everything is dark, and Death is August and royal.

In the dream, he's crying. He can't think why.

 

.

 

_April 6, 1980_

 

The daffodil's still there, in the morning. Dean walks down into down, and goes to the store. It's not too far - but it's gonna hurt carrying it back up, for certain. The air tastes of lavender, even though there isn't any around. It's funny - Dean used to like that stuff.

The day's a hot one. Dean runs his hand over his forehead. He's sweating through his shirt, which can't be that cool - and yeah, that was a pun, and wouldn't Sammy be proud?

By the time he reaches the bottom of the hill, his shirt's stuck to his back, and there are dark grey stains beneath the pits of his arms.

Charlie isn't on the counter.

Jo is beside the offers section. She has her hair puffed out to the sides. Some of it falls around her shoulders.

"Hey, Jo," Dean says, and she smiles.

"Hey, new boy," she says. She has grease on her hands. She wipes it on her trouser-leg. "What's up?"

"You been fixing the cars again?"

Jo puts one hand on her hip. "You got a problem with that, Winchester?"

"Why're you working there, Josephine?"

"What? The arcade?" Jo sweeps hair out of her eyes, and smiles. "Girl's gotta eat."

"There. The garage. The arcade. Whatever. Why?"

Jo rocks back on her heels, and looks him up and down. "Ever wanted to be part of something bigger, Dean?"

Dean looks at her.

"Charlie works," Jo says. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Charlie Bradbury? She's different, ain't she?" Dean picks up a tin of beans. It costs four dollars. "This stuff is a rip off. Since when didn't you use the supermarket?"

"Since when didn't you?"

"This place has gardening equipment, and seeds," Dean says. "The supermarket's range is shit. We've got - friggin' bean poles."

"Thought you were singin' the mart's praises."

"Back when I didn't know better." Dean turns away. "What kinda town has a garden centre, anyways?"

 

.

 

_June 24, 1910_

 

It doesn't take him long to realise he's invisible.

 

(On the twenty fourth of January 1955, Dean Winchester came into the world kicking and screaming, or so the tale goes. His brother, Sam, followed soon after. The way dad said it, you'd think it was a miracle.) 

 

When Cas's mother ignores him for the third time, he has to take a breath. He's tried everything. Everything. Waving his hands in the air, throwing mugs, jumping out of bushes. He can pick things up; he can put them down. He can touch. He can touch Castiel. But, apparently, they still don't think he exists. The shards are picked up, and put away. The flower clippings are burned. The windows are fixed.

 

(Their mother was named Mary Winchester, formerly Campbell. She came from a Catholic family. She had mid-length blonde hair, and Dean's eyes. She was the prettiest girl Dad had ever seen, by a long shot.

They'd lived in a white house, Dad said, with clematis and honeysuckle in the garden. Across the street, there'd been a lady who baked pies. Every so often, Dean got to put his dirty hands all over them. When Sam arrived, Mary Campbell, now Winchester, taken one look at him, and said: " _Oh_.") 

 

They tell Cas that he's crazy.

 

(According to Dad, it was a very reverent _oh_. And then, two weeks and four days and two hours and twenty minutes later, she'd died. And dad had mourned. And life had gone on. And Dad had travelled. And that was the end.

Only, it wasn't. Not really. Because these things don't have ends. They just come around and around.) 

 

This, in Dean's profound opinion, is a load of bull. He's real - he knows that he's real. He knows that this is reality. This is all he has left - a boy who can see him, and a universe that can't, and a brother he never got to say goodbye to. This is it. This is what there is.

Castiel sleeps soundly, despite this. His chest rises and falls, and that's that - the same as every other little kid. Dean draws the covers up over his chest, smiling slightly; then, puts his head in his hands, and cries. On the bed, Castiel snuffles. He doesn't wake.

Dean walks over to the bookcase; he takes one down. 

 

(They'd gone to another house, after Mary - Campbell, Winchester - had gone up to the Angels. Apparently, Dean had cried the whole way there. He can't remember it. It doesn't feel like a thing he would do. It's the one part of the puzzle that didn't ring true.

When Dad said it, he'd look across at Sam. Sometimes, he'd ruffle both their heads. This house wasn't half so pretty, but it had a nice garden, where Dean's fingers had grown progressively greener. Dad had bought him a trowel when he was six. First, he'd used it to dig up snails, and then to put in bulbs.) 

 

The pages are flimsy. It looks like a child's thing, which makes sense - there are stains on the pages, and one of them's torn. Dean folds it back together. It looks like a butterfly's wings: fractured. 

 

(When Sam was seven and Dean was almost twelve, they had races around it. You'd start off on the couch, legs crossed - and then you'd scramble off, and you'd turn back and go underneath it, and then you'd go out the back door and into the garden. You'd jump over the dandelions, and go around the mossy bits so that you didn't slip - and Dean never slipped, not ever - and the first one to get to the road was the winner.

Dean had been the best. Always. And then Sam had hit a growth spurt, and it had coincided neatly with not only him beating Dean, but always with them having to leave town in a hurry. After that, they'd hadn't run anymore.) 

 

There's a picture of a man. He's tall - thin. High cheekbones. Black eyes. He's looking into the distance, lips stuck together. He's got something on his mind. Dean can relate. 

 

(The next place was in an apartment building. The lift never worked, and the stairwell always had the older kids on it. It didn't have a garden, but there was a park nearby, so that was fine. Most days, Dad couldn't be home until after they'd got back from school. Dean made Sam dinner, and afterwards they'd sit out on the fire escape and wait until they could see him, and come haring outside that way.

Dad kept beer bottles under the kitchen sink. He'd fall asleep on the sofa at night, with a book on his lap. Dean would put a blanket over his knees. He'd take the glass from beside his foot, and he'd put it in the sink and wash it up, and he'd go underneath the covers and play at being a proper gardener until he fell asleep.) 

 

There's a girl, too. She's kneeling on the ground, beside a stream. There are peaks of froth in the water. The guy's a few feet away - and she hasn't seen, because she isn't looking. Doesn't care, maybe. Playing coy? Dean can't tell. 

 

.

 

_April 6, 1980_

 

Dean kicks the bag. He kicks it again. Its sides begin to split. Some of it rains down onto the floor. Again. Again. Again. Kick. Kick. Kick.

He starts on the poles. Grabs one of them, and sticks it inside. Picks up another, and throws it down. Splinters fall from it. It snaps beneath his foot, under the boot.

Sweet William, the packet says.

Dianthus barbatus.

The buzzing's getting louder, and louder, and louder, and louder, and _loud_ -

 

.

 

_April 7, 1980_

 

He paces the kitchen; looks up at the drawing of himself, tacked to the wall, with the sunlight streaming down onto it. He doesn't look like himself. He looks...like a shadow. A shadow of somebody else.

Dean pulls a chair against the wall, and tears it down. He holds the fragile sheet between his fingers - and it would be easy, so easy, to rip it. That way, he wouldn't have to look at it anymore - wouldn't have to remember a nineteen year old boy, sitting in a trench, with a pencil in his shaking grip, and drawing him. Drawing him.

Dean's fingers shake.

He replaces the picture, and tries not to watch, even as its eyes track him across the room; ever vigilant, even now. Ever _loving_.

Dean sinks to his knees, and puts his head in his hands.

 

**XV**

 

_Zinnia (zinnia)_

_Zinnia is a sub-species of sunflower, within the daisy family. They are native to dry brushland, in Mexico and South America. First brought to Europe by the Spanish in the 1500s, they have become widely popular, and are used as part of many garden decorations, due to their varied and beautiful colours._

_They are usually thought of as meaning long-lasting friendship, or thoughts of friends._

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"What is that?"

"Something." Charlie manoeuvres the controls skilfully; dextrously. It's fascinating to watch.

"Lunar lander," Castiel reads, slowly. "What are you trying to do?"

Charlie shrugs, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Fly the rocket. Win the game."

"Aren't we all," Gabriel mutters, before continuing, "don't know about you, Cassy, but something tells me our mutual friend has ulterior motives. Or, to be precise, an ulterior motive." Gabriel jerks a thumb over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow - Castiel follows the line of it, brow furrowing.

"Charlie, is that Jo?"

Charlie freezes, hands clenched around joysticks. Faintly, Castiel imagines he can see stars. He can't, of course. Naturally. No. 

 

.

 

_October 21, 1911_

 

"You know, Cas, you've just gotta love these flowers. I mean, Bachelor's Buttons? Seriously?" Dean sprawls in the chair, as Castiel folds down a page, trying his level best not to huff. It can't be an attractive quality.

"I fail to see how that is relevant. It's entirely illogical to have a preference for one thing, based entirely on its name. It could be poisonous, or dangerous, or-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, grumpy. Fourteen going on forty." Dean's voice lowers dangerously, as he says the next words, drawing them out, in a poor imitation of Castiel's own tones: "I'm Castiel Novak, and I take no prisoners."

"I do not understand that reference," Castiel replies. Dean's eyelids are hooded, and dark; in Castiel's chest, something flickers, ever so slightly. He touches it, just to make sure - but no, there's nothing wrong with him. Nothing wrong per se, at least. "I am simply trying to state a fact. If you were to choose every book in life based on its cover, then-"

"Then," Dean puts in, effectively cutting him off, "you'd have a lot of pretty books to fill up your shelf."

"Knowing you, you'd probably have a lot of pictures of girls."

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"What does she look like?" Charlie grits out, without looking away from the screen. Her fisted hands are snow white.

"And there is your motive," Gabriel comments. "Moral support, are we? You know, I think I like her. She's smart." Castiel sends a short, sharp glance behind him. The woman's blonde; her hair ripples down her back, in loose curls. She's wearing a man's trousers, and a red shirt; it hugs her hips, her curves, her chest.

"She's pretty," Gabriel says - entirely unnecessarily, in Castiel's humble opinion. "Reminds me of Kali, back in the day. Ah...Kali..."

"Are you going to talk to her?" Castiel asks.

Castiel tries to keep his tone light - and it was meant as a joke, in the moments before he said it - but there's a weight on his chest, and Dean's eyes are very green - so green, that he has to look away, or else combust. Sweetpeas for shyness, and all that.

"What? No!" Charlie's voice rises, slightly - a few curious patrons look round. She blushes scarlet, and returns to her appraisal of the machine. Sadly, it appears she's lost. "Damn it," she hisses, "I was that close-"

But something, in Castiel's mind, doesn't feel right about all this - doesn't feel proper.

"Have you ever actually spoken to this girl?"

"Well...uh..."

"And there," Gabriel practically crows, "we have our proof. We're the back-up protocol."

"No," Castiel finishes. "You haven't."

"I was going to today, alright!" Charlie turns towards him, hissing quietly; she's like a steam train. "She works here, and you made me...you know...do the other thing, so I thought...you know...that you could help!"

"I'm not a miracle worker, Charlie. You have to do this yourself. Now come on. Go over to her." Gently, Castiel pushes her forwards - Charlie digs her heels in, resisting with all her might.

"What do I say?" And in all the time Castiel's known her, Charlie Bradbury has never appeared more scared. She's a world away from the composed girl he knows; floundering and babbling, in a more of uncertainty.

"Say...say that you've been seeing her, err, around...and...and heard she was good at gaming!" Castiel knows what must be done.

"She hates gaming! She only works here for the tips!" Before Castiel can register exactly how Charlie might know that, he's talking again, words stumbling out from between his teeth.

"Give her one of those, then! Go!" And with that, Castiel summons all of his remaining might (not so much as when he was himself, a young man, a broken-different man), and shoves a practically teenage girl out of her seat.

It's not his crowning moment.

 

.

 

_October 21, 1915_

 

Castiel is seventeen; he is tall, loose-postured, and gangly. He is nothing special; he sees it in the mirror, when he cares to look. He is nothing like the man beside him. Every time he falls asleep, stretched out beside green eyes and bronzed cheeks, Castiel knows that he cannot hope to equal it, or even come close. In his nightmares, that same face stares out at his own, and laughs.

"Knowing you," he says, "you'd probably have a lot of pictures of girls."

Dean raises an eyebrow, lolling back over the covers. His shirt rides up his chest, exposing a thin sliver of tanned stomach. Castiel doesn't register it. He doesn't.

There is a freckle, directly above his navel. It's distracting.

"Well, they'd have to be girls with nice names. Lisa, for example." Dean closes his eyes, lying back, a smile playing around his mouth. "I had a girlfriend."

"Lisa?" Castiel hazards. Dean nods, in response. "Was...was she-"

"Beautiful? Hell, yeah. Everybody thought so. I did, too." Dean puts his hands behind his head, grinning contentedly. "I liked her. She was cool."

"Cool? I don't - "

"Nice. Sweet. Attractive. Curvy." Dean traces an hourglass in the air, with his hands. "Like this."

"Ah. Right." Castiel moves slightly closer, lost in thought. "What does it feel like?"

"To want somebody?" Dean echoes. Castiel nods, in response.

"Yes." Dean sucks on his lip, eyes sparkling. It's a distracting image, and one that Castiel knows will probably haunt him.

"It...it's...well, you get all hot and bothered, when you're around them. You can't really speak."

"Can't speak? You get hot?"

"Yeah," Dean says, "why? You found yourself someone?" Castiel cushions his arms with his head. Beside him, he feels the bed move; when he turns his bed, Dean's lying beside him, stretched out on his belly. They're close enough to touch. Castiel can feel his pulse, fluttering in his neck.

"No," Castiel says. "Not yet."

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"You know, we are directly responsible for this beautiful thing." Gabriel rests his elbows on his knees, bringing them up to his chest where he sits. Castiel's chest aches - so he sits beside him, on the bench. The fake flowers sit behind them, through a pane of glass. "They're gonna fall in love, and get married, and have lots of genetically perfect children."

"Firstly, illegal, and secondly, biologically impossible."

"Don't you think they're gonna fall in love, though?" Gabriel entreats. "Charlie really likes her. That's fifty per cent done."

Castiel shrugs. "I don't know. You need two people to have a relationship, Gabriel. I'd have thought you, of all people, would know that. You spent enough time talking about Kali."

"Kali. Beautiful, indescribably impossible Kali." Gabriel runs a hand through his hair, tousling it. His eyes are darkened. "I didn't find her again. Never went back."

Castiel's face tightens. "Could you? Go back. After...it."

"Yes. I...I just didn't...I don't know." Gabriel places his feet on the ground, black boots gleaming. When he was alive, they were brown. If you wanted them loose, you had to wet them, in some...unique sources. They altered the colour, somewhat. They must be brand new. "I wasn't ready, when I left. I didn't want it."

Castiel sweats; it slips behind his collar, as he turns his face away from Gabriel's light. Back in the day, Gabriel seemed so old - so wise, so mature, despite his quirks. Now, Castiel sees him for what he is - a twenty year old man, who didn't want to go.

"I am sorry," Castiel murmurs, "I couldn't-"

"I know. You couldn't save me." Gabriel's breath is clearly visible, despite the morning's warmth. "Thing is, Cassy, that doesn't change anything. I'm still dead, and you're still alone, and that's that."

"I'm not alone," Castiel retorts. Gabriel raises a brow. "Or, at least, I wasn't." Castiel sucks in a breath, taking some of Gabriel's coolness.

"I'll say."

"Gabriel...where you were..." Castiel places a hand on his knee, forming ripples in the fabric covering it. Across the street, two kids roll by, skateboard wheels clicking against the pavement. One of them laughs, loudly and shrilly, as he continues: "Did you ever meet him?"

"Dean, you mean?"

Castiel has to restrain a shiver. It's been so long since he's heard that name in use; he's picked it apart, watched it fade over time, disassociate itself from the man it belonged to.

"Yes." Castiel grips his legs. Something's banging, against his brittle bones; he can't name it, or else face collapse. That wouldn't be pleasant.

"Sorry, Cassy. I never did." Castiel releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding - the air falls out of him, slowly forcing him to deflate, slump forwards. It's funny.

"Of course. Of course you didn't. You couldn't have."

"Because I'm not real, you mean?" Castiel doesn't reply. Gabriel tilts his head upwards, towards the clouds. "You know, I always did like sunflowers. Reminded me of home."

"What do you know about flowers?"

Gabriel shrugs, smirking. "Enough. We're talking Dean. Focus."

"I am focusing."

"You're still in love with him? After all this time?"

Castiel doesn't falter; but he pauses, tasting the air, filling his lungs. "Always," he says. It is the truest thing he can think of.

Gabriel nods, seemingly musing, as Castiel stares across the street. The children are gone, now, leaving nothing but shadows behind, creeping along the ground.

"Must be a good man," Gabriel comments amicably.

"Must have been." Castiel can hear the weariness in his own words; he speaks without inflection, without pause, but each one is heavy nonetheless. "He's gone, now."

"What was he like?"

What was he like?

What was Dean Winchester like, indeed?

Castiel flounders were words; struggles to find syllables capable of containing a man's essence - his life, his heart, his soul, his vibrance. Dean - gruff and snappish, telling him to watch himself - smiling and carefree, lolling among the daisies - Dean, with his freckles and his voice and the little things he does, like stretching and straining and picking his nails, that just make him...him.

What was he like?

What was he like, indeed?

"Castiel?" Gabriel prompts, "Are you alright?"

There is a pause.

"He was...different," Castiel replies, haltingly. When Gabriel doesn't interrupt, he continues: "Special. We shared a more...profound bond. I understood him, as much as I could. He was...he was mine."

And then he wasn't.

Castiel doesn't say that part.

"Did you?" Gabriel says, apparently intrigued, "Did you understand him? Do you know where he came from? Who his family was? Where he came from?"

Castiel narrows his eyes.

"How can you possibly know that?"

Gabriel holds up his hands.

"Hallucination, remember? I know what you know. And right now, I know that you miss him."

From inside the shop, Castiel can hear the sound of laughter.

"Yes." And it's true - he did, and he does. "I've missed him for a very long time."

Gabriel purses his lips; Castiel can imagine a cigarette tucked between them, poisoning him from the outside in. The door of the shop opens, with a faint 'whumph'.

"I could make you forget."

Gabriel's leaning back against the bench, eyes shut - as though this is a perfectly reasonable offer.

"You can do that?"

Gabriel nods, eyes tightly shut. "Oh, yeah. Perks of the job. All I am is a memory, right? I could...make things fade. He'd just have been a story. An invention. A game you made up, to pass the time. You'd think of him, sometimes, but...that's all he's be. A pleasant thought."

Castiel stares at the wall. It's speckled with brick dust; dry, and high, and blank. Featureless. "I...I don't want to forget. I want to remember him. That's what matters."

"If you say so," Gabriel says, voice tinged with...something. Almost...humour. Castiel glances towards him, sharply. "But if you need it, the offer's always open."

"What?"

 

.

 

_November 3, 1915_

 

Castiel doesn't know where Gabriel got the paper. Strike that - he does know. He just doesn't want to know. Raphael will, undoubtedly, flip his gasket in the morning. Castiel can live with that. He can live with a lot of things. He can live with the stones, for example. He can live with it.

It's a bad sketch. He knows that much. Without the aid of a ruler to help him, he's never been much good at drawing lines. Numbers baffle him; shapes confuse. It's all a matter of perspective, Anna tells him, and shifts his hand. He's never had much of that, either.

Even so, he draws, and he draws. Castiel closes his eyes; he has an excellent work copy. Truly stunning. Breathtaking. Jaw dropping. Whatever you'd like to call it, there it is. Copying it, on the other hand? A nightmare.

It isn't Dean. Decidedly, it isn't. But it's close enough to be familiar, and it smells of Castiel, and wetness, and Gabriel's cigarettes. So Castiel pockets it, and pretends that it doesn't nag at him. Much. 

 

.

 

_Lavender (lavandula)_

_A popular plant, it is a genus of thirty nine species, and is part of the mint family. It has spread wide across the world, and can be found in Cape Verde and the Canary Islands, southern Europe, and southwest Asia among others._

_It is named after its distinctive purple shade. The most widely cultivated species is lavandula angustifolia. Lavender is symbolic for distrust._


	6. Chapter 6

**XVI**

 

_Fact:_

_Late spring is the best time to plant evergreens._

 

.

 

_April 9, 1980_

 

"I'm going to propose to Jess," Sam says.

Dean chokes on his tea. "Say what now?" 

"Jess. You know. My girlfriend?" Sam drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. He's lounging backwards, one leg crossed over the other. "I want to marry her."

"You want to marry Jess." 

"I bought a ring," Sam says. "A few days ago, actually."

"What kind?"

"Hell do I know?"

"You bought it, didn't you?"

"I - I dunno? Silver? And - and thin? _What_?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing. Just - did you ever think we'd be doing this? Getting jobs? Getting homes? Getting - married?"

Sam shakes his head. "Wasn't something that crossed my mind." 

"Dad would've liked her," Dean says.

Sam snorts. "You kidding? Dad would've scared her off."

"True," Dean says. "Don't think he'd have appreciated a lot of this."

Sam looks at him sideways. "You kept his car," he says.

"I kept our car. He just owned it." Sam laughs, confused yet confident. Dean slaps him on the back. "This calls for a celeberation! Where do you keep the wine, huh?" 

 

.

 

_March 18, 1915_

 

"Don't you ever wanna see the world, Cas? Don't you want to travel?" Dean's lying back. There's a funny taste in his mouth. It's warm. The flowers are blossoming. They're beautiful. 

"I have no time for travelling. Father needs me." Castiel flips a page. Dean can tell he isn't reading it, though. If he was concentrating, Dean wouldn't be getting a word. 

"Yeah...but don't you want more? What about the flowers, huh? When are you gonna take that up?" Going to his feet, Dean stumbles over to Castiel's side, stretching his hands above his head. 

"I'll do it as a side hobby. Somebody has to help you keep the grounds in check - if you stay, of course." Castiel swallows. He doesn't bite his lip, or anything like that, but it's close. 

"I'm staying - you know that." Dean sighs. His hands hover. "But...what about your dreams, man? What happens to them?"

"They remain as they are. Dreams." Castiel looks away, out towards the garden. Anna's sitting on the lawn. She's wearing a white sun dress. Her tutor's down there with her, looking as discontent as can be. Dean pities the guy. 

"So, that's the plan? Live inside your head for the rest of your life, and never leave? What about friends? What about a family? Don't you want that? Any of that?" Dean's skin itches. He's angry, now. He can't contain it. 

"I like living inside my head. It's quieter, there." Castiel's eyes return to his book. It looks like poetry - Emily Brontë, Cas told him. Dean's had a peek inside. It's not exactly his thing. 

"Castiel - " 

Castiel snaps. "I don't know, Dean! I don't know what I want! All I know is that I am a person, and people are allowed to be uncertain. I am human. I am _human_."

"Forgive me for taking an interest!" Dean forces himself to calm. Outside, Anna's tutor springs to his feet, apparently defeated. He's probably going to talk to Cas now. They'll be on about English until the sun comes up. "Your tutor's after you." 

Castiel groans. Dean pats him on the shoulder, and swiftly draws his hand away. Castiel blinks at him. "How long do I have?" 

"Maybe five minutes." 

Castiel rises to his feet - with a surprising amount of energy, he begins to walk towards the door. "I'm going to hide in the library. I can't stand that man. Are you coming?" 

Just for a second, Dean considers refusing. Saying no. 

"Sure," Dean replies, and stands up. Castiel smiles at him. His hair's mussed - his mother'll be on at him about that, later. Castiel's like a baby bird. "Let's go." 

 

.

 

_April 9, 1980_

 

Sam's never been able to handle alcohol. It's something Dean's known since they were kids, and fifteen-year-old Sammy took his first swig. 

"You, my friend, are _smiling_." Sam chuckles, sliding to his feet. He sways; his hand goes out for the drawers. Dean catches him, and yanks him upright. Sam giggles. "Whichever girl is making you this happy, I wanna meet her. And shake her hand. Is it Jo? Jo's pretty. Is it?"

Dean shakes his head, smiling, and says, "Watch yourself, moose. You're gonna trip over your own feet."

Sam's lips purse. "I'm serious," he whines, hair flipping forwards over his eyes. "This is a - a problem. You'll feel better if you have a _girl_ -friend." Sam runs a hand through his hair, shoving it to the side. 

"I know," Dean tells him. "I'm - still sad, though. About Cas. I don't think I'm ever not gonna be." 

Sam leans forward, hands on his knees, eyes intent. "You know I still love you, right? Don't care if you're a - a fag. It's good." 

"I ain't gay." Dean laughs. The whiskey stings his throat, giving him courage. "Wanna dance with me, handsome?" 

Sam chirrups, and lurches to his feet. "Alright," he says, and takes Dean's hand - just like they're young again, like they don't know better. They stumble around in circles, Sam clutching at his shoulder. 

"Love you," Sam whispers. "Lots and lots. Gotta know that I care, 'cause I do. Never stop caring. Never stopped caring 'bout you." 

Dean takes his hand, and leads him to the sofa. Sam's flat out in moments. Dean pulls the blanket up to his chest. 

"Sweet dreams, sunshine," Dean mumbles, and presses a clumsy kiss to his forehead before making his way across to the chair, where he falls asleep. 

 

.

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

Dean takes a breath, and tries his level best not to scream.

"What's the date today, Cas?"

Castiel stares at him. "The twenty third of June," he says, "1910."

Dean stops. Blinks. "What."

He intended it to be a question, he's pretty sure. It doesn't come out like that.

"The twenty third," Castiel repeats. "Surely you must know the month?"

"That's not the year."

"Of course it's the year. What else would it be?"

"Okay," Dean says. "Alright. Quit messing around. What's the goddamn year?"

"I told you!" Castiel sits up in bed, indignant. He looks like a puppy. A small, _intense_ puppy. "The date is the twenty third of June, in the year 1910. And if you choose not to trust me, then you can do so all you want, but I have no reason to lie."

"I've gotta get out of here," Dean says.

Castiel stares. "Excuse me?"

 

**XVII**

 

_February 11, 1916_

 

On an otherwise uneventful day in an otherwise eventful war, during a mad scramble across the tops of trenches, a bomb lands by Castiel Novak's ankle. It's a few feet away - and as he happens to look across, crouched inside a narrow hole, trying to keep his legs out of mud-stricken water, he spots it.

Trench foot, trench foot, you'll get trench foot that way, you'll get trench foot like that - he chants it to himself, inside his head, half-conscious of its presence in his thoughts at all. Mostly, he rubs the petal between his fingertips - rub, rub, Dean, rub, rub, rub, Dean - and his hands are thick with dirt, caking his fingers - and that's really not good, that's dirty, and Mother will be ever so cross.

It isn't as though he's clean often, nowadays. If it's not the mud, or the water, it's the lice - and he can feel them now, on his skin, and they itch, they itch, itch, itch - but if you rub it with petals, the skin will flake away, and leave bones behind. The only problem is, he lost his - and he can't get it back.

There's a man beside him; a few years older than him. He reminds Castiel of Samandriel, faintly. They never did find out what happened to him. Nobody really cared - all too busy with their own troubles, their own worries, their own war. He calls himself Zeke, and keeps himself to himself. Castiel doesn't know much about him; he's handsome, he supposes, and French. Sometimes, at night, Castiel hears him screaming.

"Are we moving out?" Zeke barks out, hackles raised; he's tense all over, body screaming fear. Castiel imagines he looks much the same - but he doesn't really mind.

They're all in the same boat; no matter what country they hail from, no matter the colour of their skin, no matter the content of their hearts. When you're staring down the barrel of a gun, breath catching, body frozen in fear (thinking Dean, Dean, I'll never come home), you don't much care for arguments. There are petty squabbles, of course - there always are. Shove enough rats together, and eventually, one of them will bite. It's only a matter of who, and when, and why.

Castiel opens his mouth, preparing a reply, and that's when it lands.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

When Charlie finally makes an appearance, she's shell-shocked herself. Glassy-eyed, she practically falls down onto the bench, staring numbly ahead. Castiel's face falls. He peers across the road - just to check he hasn't missed anything, and there isn't an amazingly interesting blonde for her to become fixated on by the gas station. Sadly, the answer isn't in the affirmative. "Did she...?"

Charlie shakes her head, mutely. "She knew who I was." Castiel considers reaching for her hand - hesitates - thinks better of it. A weight drags his chest downwards, through the dirt, and among the swaying rhodedendrons.

"Charlie-"

"She knew who I was. She...she said she wanted to get to know me. She said she liked me." Charlie clings to the wooden seat, as though the Earth itself may suddenly drop away from her, leaving only an abyss below. A small bloom of hope sprouts; a gardenia. Joy. "There's a party, tomorrow. It's her birthday. I...I'm invited."

"You're invited," Castiel echoes, dumbly, ears ringing - and the weight's gone, as he realises just what that means. Charlie grins - and Castiel grins, a moment later, and allows it to take over his face, bearing him up - and, quite frankly, he hasn't felt like this in a long, long time. They smile together, at one another, stupidly, and Castiel breathes, euphoric: "Please tell me that means an end?" 

Charlie nods. "I guess so," she says.

 

.

 

_February 11, 1916_

 

That's when it lands. It falls in the dirt, by Castiel's booted foot - and he hears, over the constant barrage of the shells, a faint noise. And then he sees it.

He scrabbles.

He scrambles back, over dirt and mud.

It gleams dully, in the light - and he's seen what those can do, seen how they shatter, seen how they blow men apart. He's heard it all - all those stories, Gabriel's mouth moving, smiling. 

And it's lying there, and Zeke's staring, unmoving, and why isn't he moving, they're both going to die - his skin is clammy, and he's sweating, and his breath is coming in ragged gasps. 

And Dean.

Dean.

He's going to die - here, holding fort without a proper attack, doing no good, no good at all - he's going to die here, and he's never going to see Dean's face again. And it's all he can do not to scream. 

That's a word that stops him in his tracks - pulls him up short, snaps the world into focus.

Castiel's kneeling in a trench. 

He's beyond all help - all hope - because Dean Winchester, his childhood companion, his gardener, his best friend, is what he is thinking of, and he is about to die. 

And he will never feel the same way.

When Castiel's body stops shaking, there are lines of brown and red across his vision; it's a cocoon, and it's warm, and it's safe. There is warmth, on the seat of his trousers. Mother won't be (breath, breath, breath) pleased - and Balthazar (breath, breath, breath) will laugh - and Balthazar was right in front, and where is (breath, breath, breath, breath) Balthazar? Six feet under, that's where - locked away beneath the earth, in a pile of bodies in a dark pit. Try to wax lyrical about that, friend!

At least he still has the others - Gabriel and Lucifer, and even Uriel. (Breath, breath, breath.) Without them, he'd have nothing - nothing apart from the memory of a man, with warm calloused hands which never touched him, and breath which never blew across his (breath, breath) skin, and a voice unheard by Anna and Mother and Father, simply because they did not wish to. Do not wish too. It's all so jumbled, now - rocked around, until there's nothing left, apart from ashes. The foundation of the new world. (Breath, breath.) 

At least he has the men - because without them, he'd have nothing. Nothing but the memories of tired smiles, and worn palms, and a man who never had a chance, really.

When Castiel takes his hands down, Zeke isn't looking at the bomb, but at him. "Dud," he says, "didn't blow." Each word, Castiel thinks, is an accusation - because he didn't do it, couldn't do it.

"Let's go," he says - and, pointing his bayonet before him (much good may it do), he climbs out of the ground, and away from Zeke, and away. 

They are shot at. Zeke gets a bullet in the kneecap. Castiel doesn't see his face. He falls soundlessly. He is alive. He doesn't scream. They send him home. 

  

**XVIII**

 

_Fact:_

_Spreading compost regularly adds valuable nutrients to soils, which may otherwise be lacking, depending on the environment in which you live._

 

.

 

_April 21, 1980_

 

Dean's sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, when the man arrives. He has not been there long. 

He's short, and stocky; brown eyes, brown hair. If he stood next to Sam, he'd come up to his chin, tops. He's wearing an army uniform, and a brown cap, and big, black boots. 

The door is not open, and he's here, anyway - standing in the centre of the kitchen, and fondling Cas's mug.

"You Americans and your coffee," he says. "What do you do, leech off it? Do you suck all the necessary nutrients for your day out of its blackened depths? Tea's not good enough for you, eh?"

"If you're a ghost," Dean says, "could you send Cas down, please? I don't have time for any - spiritual bullshit."

The soldier snorts. "Spiritual bullshit? Is that what I am? Cassy said you were polite."

Dean's head snaps up, entirely of its own accord. He doesn't mean for it to happen. It just - does. "Cas? You know Cas?"

The man nods. "Sure do, Dean-o. He told me a lot about you. Said you'd be lonely, after he went. Told me to...keep an eye on you. Make sure you were eating. And not drinking - that." Gabriel gestures towards Dean's mug. Dean pulls it closer towards himself.

There seems to be more to this than what he is saying.

"Coffee's fine. Better than tea, anyway."

The man snorts. "Of course." He shakes his head. "Americans. You're all the same."

"And you British ain't?"

"Naturally. We're brilliant. Never lacking in vibrance. Never-" The man pulls out a chair, and sits down, plopping his feet onto the table-top. His boots leave stains. "-lacking in company. Parties every night, more beer than you can dream of - and tea. Sweet, beautiful tea."

"I ain't lonely," Dean mutters, into his palms.

"Then what are you?"

Dean takes a breath; takes another. "Tired," he answers. "That's it."

The man nods. "Well, maybe it's time you should be bucking up, boyo. Wars won't win themselves."

"Shaddup." 

 

.

 

_July 29, 1914_

 

By the time Dean realises he might just be over his head, here, it's the day of Cas's sixteenth birthday. Dean knows he should get him a present - because that's what people do, isn't it? But it's not as though he can just stroll down to the shop, knock over some tins, and spell out a message in beans (fact: he's tried, in the kitchen). The people in this village are completely oblivious. It must be something to do with Britain. Or maybe just England.

Anyway, Cas doesn't seem to mind too much, so it's alright. They sit on the lawn, and look out across it - and it never fails to strike Dean that they have a manor, and gardens, and a freakin' lawn. A lawn.

There's a sunbeam, slanting down over Castiel's cheekbones; it makes them stand out against his skin. He's always been pale, but now he looks...gold, almost. People don't look like that. It just ain't right. Corny, is what it is.

He's got a book in his lap, and he's reading; chewing on the edge of his lip, peering over pages, one by one, with a worried intensity. Dean wants to tell him to slow down - that they've got all the time in the world. The story won't just disappear if he puts it down for a second. Sometimes it's good to take a break, when you haven't got anything to fight for.

If Dean peers over Castiel's shoulder, he can make out the words - and then there's cool breath on his cheek, and it smells of mint, and tea (and Dean knows what type of tea, because he saw Anna make it this morning). His hair's messed up. Cas isn't a morning person, but this is plain stupid. Couldn't he at least have brushed it, before he fell out of bed? Dean needs to get him a hairbrush - or smooth it down himself. That would work. Save folks the trouble.

Cas smiles, slightly - at something on the page, that Dean can't see - and his eyes crinkle, right at the corners, and his cheeks rise up - and Dean's staring at him, his heart getting faster and faster, until he can feel it, thumping out of his chest - and all he can think is, _make this last. Please, God, make this last._

"Dean," Castiel says, "why are you staring at me?"

And then Dean makes some excuse, fumbling over the words. 

 

.

 

_July 30, 1915_

 

Dean's first kiss went a little like this: Cassie reached up towards him. He looked down. Their lips met. Dean started forward, fisting his hands in her shirt. She laughed; he laughed. She rubbed circles on his shoulders.

"You were so kind," she told him, with her big doe eyes, and Dean was lost, all the way. So he kissed her again, and again and again, until her mom found them and screamed her head off.

 

 

Dean's second kiss: it was a boy. That's important. His name was Aaron. He had brown hair. Brown eyes. Big jaw. Recycled. Played soccer. Ate healthily. Loved guys. Had a big dog - a Labrador. Dean saw him walking it through town sometimes.

It was all about his smile. He did this thing where he looked up from underneath his lashes, and then he chewed on his lip. His teeth came out, big and shiny, and there was actual joy behind it, and he wasn't laughing at anyone.

They lay on Dean's bed. Aaron wore a jumper. They ended up peeling it off, but they did go any further. They just sat there together, underneath the sheets, heads bowed, smiling.

"Gosh," Aaron said. Dean didn't look at him; his hands were on Aaron's lap. Aaron drew him in close. Dean went with it; he ended up squashed between the crook of his shoulder and his chest. "You're quite something, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Dean got out.

"Are those boys always outside your door?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he says. "But they ain't trouble. They just - sit there."

Aaron nodded. He toyed with the edge of his mouth. "When's your dad coming back?" 

"I dunno." Dean shrugs. "Soon." 

Aaron moved their heads into a straight line. Dean touched his shoulders, and pulled back. There wasn't anywhere to put his hands. 

 

 

Dean's third kiss was Lisa. She was a vet. Worked with animals. Had hay fever. Sneezed all over the roses Dean sends, but thanked him anyway.

They went out to dinner on a Thursday. Dean wore his best jeans, and Lisa wears a blue dress with a lifted-up hem.

"You look pretty," Dean told her, and Lisa smirked, cool as a cucumber. 

Lisa was pretty. She liked Kurt Vonnegut and To Kill A Mockingbird and sci-fi. She had brown eyes and she was a brunette, and she was wearing a tight dress and she was watching him as he moved, one brow raised.

She let him kiss her; he went in once, then twice, then three times. Her hands looped in his hair. He held onto her waist. 

Lisa'd never read The Catcher in the Rye. Dean was willing to let it slide.

 

 

The night Dean Winchester kisses Castiel Novak, it all happens too fast. One second, they're talking - arguing - and the next, Cas has him up against the wall, and he's got hands in his hair, carding through, and a tongue in his mouth, hot and slick and wet and sliding. 

Dean's angry, and it's sudden. Their teeth knock together, scraping by; and Cas draws in a breath, against his lips, and Dean wants to force closer, wants more and more and more and more, until he bursts.

Castiel's warm, in front of him. His cheeks are flushed, and his shirt's half-open. Dean's fingers work at the buttons - one after another, fumbling with them. Castiel's breath catches; his fingers dig in, tight, like he's got to hold himself up with something.

Dean doesn't take come any closer, because this cannot be happening. Not to him. Cas is a child, and he is a man. Castiel's fingers are shaking, in the folds of his clothes. There's heat in the pool of Dean's abdomen, and tingling in his fingers, and buzzing in his ears. 

Castiel inches in, and Dean watches Castiel's mouth is open, slightly - like he's going to speak, but he can't think of a single thing to say. 

Dean steps back. Castiel's lips quiver. His eyes widen. He looks so very, very young. He's wearing a white button-down shirt, and has bare feet; so Dean doesn't hit him. True fact. 

"Get your hands off me," he says. Castiel obeys without question, like some stupid little kid, and Dean does punch him this time. He swings his fist around, and punches him below his eye. "You're

Dean brings his knee up. It impacts with Cas's chest, and he doubles over hard, winded. 

"Dean" Castiel says. He's on the ground. He's crying. He goes to his feet, hands curling into fists. 

"What was that?" Dean's choking on air. "You're gay. You're a faggot." 

"It was never my intention to hurt you," Castiel says.

 

**XIX**

 

_January 2, 1916_

 

Castiel misses Dean with a wild intensity; a burning heat. Before, it wasn't so bad - back when his friends were with him, and they were a unit, and they had a bond. He hadn't let himself think about Dean, then; because he was getting better, and he was moving on, and wasn't it why Father had wanted him gone in the first place? Is there a bloom, for forgetting? Is there something - a plant, a poultice - that will make it fade?

But now - now, with Balthazar and Michael dead, and Lucifer and Uriel running - now that it's only him and Gabriel left, below sneering Sergeant Raphael - now, he can't help but long. Fantasies spiral through his mind like petals, blown up in a storm. He lost Dean's petal long ago; the book's pages are torn, now, as he flips them, with fumbling hands, eyelids drooping, every muscle aching.

It isn't a life. Not really. It isn't a life at all. It's monotony; as Raphael barges past, clucking and preening, voice roaring - and it's all too loud, too much, too close. It might be enough to drown out the shells, if he only listened to it. Instead, he allows Gabriel to hold him up; and he returns the favour. They're all the other has left, now. There is nothing else.

The day Castiel receives the letter, it's early January. The young man hands it over, moustache bristling; fumbling, Castiel tears it open - and winces, impatience rising up in the back of his throat. The wound on his hand still hasn't entirely healed; that's what war will do to you. It will take time, they told him. He's been waiting. Nothing has changed. Anna's handwriting is spider-like, and intimate, and scrawled - he smiles at it, fondness tugging his lips up.

He reads, hungrily scanning words - he reads, and he reads, down to the very bottom of the crumpled sheet. He reads - and he stops. Everything stops. He reads it again. And again. He reads the line. He reads. And, neatly, he puts the letter to one side - and stands, unheeding of the danger, head spinning.

The sunlight shines through. The chill stings, faintly. His heart drums - never-ending. Breath. Someone screams his name. A _scream_. Holler. Whoop.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"I couldn't save you, you know." Castiel stares up at the wisteria - and he doesn't try to trim or prune it, or cut it back, or take cuttings. He simply watches, and imagines it twisting its way up the wall, finding its home in nooks and crannies, bursting past the stakes it had originally been attached to.

"I know."

"I wanted to," Castiel clarifies, "I did. But it was your choice. I didn't make you." The words sound false, even as he says them. He tries to ignore that, as best he can.

"No, you didn't." The wisteria bloom brightly, glowing in the dusky sunset. In the dimming light, they look almost burnished. Castiel's head droops.

"It was my fault. I killed you." There's silence - echoing, deafening silence. That's all Castiel needs to hear. "It's my fault. If I...if I hadn't..."

The words stick to his lips; mosquitoes trapped in amber, flies to the honeypot. Even now - after all this time, all of these years - Castiel Novak can't bring himself to be honest. He never has been - because, in the end, he's a liar. He's been lying to himself since he was twelve years old, standing in his father's office, and feeling his world's seams split.

"Believe that if you want, Cassy." Gabriel puts his hands in his pockets, gazing absently upwards. There's a fine sheen of whiteness, surrounding him; ice, or frost, perhaps. Castiel can just see it, out of the corner of his eye. It doesn't matter - and when Castiel turns his head, it's gone. "But it's not true."

Castiel snorts, rubbing a lined hand over his eyes. "I thought I was the liar."

Gabriel shakes his head, good-naturedly. "Nope. Only person you've ever lied to is...well...you. Thinking that boy doesn't love you, for example. He does."

"He didn't. He didn't. He...he couldn't have, Gabriel. You know why he couldn't."

"Because he wasn't a woman?"

Castiel shakes his head. 

"Because he didn't - he didn't want - " Castiel puts his hands down. "He hit me. I wanted to forget." 

"Cas," Gabriel says. "That's not okay. That never - that - _God_." Gabriel runs his hands through his hair. 

Castiel smiles. "It was a long time ago," he clarifies, "but I never forgave him. I wish I had." 

"You didn't deserve that. You deserve all of the goodness in this life. Not - him." Gabriel spits out the final word, as though he can't bear for it to be on his tongue anymore. "I thought he was supposed to be a good man. This proves that he's not. Doesn't it? Don't you see?" 

"I loved him. You can't take that away. Loving him, it was like - like standing on a precipice, and watching the sunrise." The garden stretches out in front of him. Weeds push up through the cracks in the path. The sun bakes the wisteria dry. "

 

.

 

_January 2, 1916_

 

Castiel is holding the letter in both hands, and he's standing, and there's white light, surrounding Castiel's vision, just on the edges, and it's in his eyeballsm and it hurts, and there's grey and blue - grey sky, blue clouds - or maybe the other way round, he can't be sure.

 

_Zinnia. Thoughts of friends._

 

The silence echoes in his ears; they ring, and he _can't hear anything_. Castiel gasps, and puts his hands to the sides of his head, and they send ripples through his eyes. 

 

 _Hey there, Cassy. Pass the peas, will you?_ Gabriel puts his feet up on the table, wearing slacks with dress-shoes, smirking in that oh-so familiar fashion. There's thunder blowing up, around him; a snowstorm, flowing into Castiel's skin. He raises his hand, trying to shield himself, and it's all just black white black shirts rolled sleeves brown boots piss spit lick rub run take tight take two

 

_Zinnia. Thoughts of friends._

 

(They take him from the battlefield - but he won't go, won't leave him behind, man to man, soldiers, warriors, brothers, brothers to the very last, to the very end-)

 

_Native to scrub and dry grassland, in America and Mexico._

 

Another piece of Dean's mystery, it seems. Blood on his hands and in his nose wet and sticking and he scrubs and rubs but nothing moves. 

There's dirt beneath him, and he's lying in it - and he isn't dead. He can feel his heartbeat; and this could be what death feels like, but it shouldn't ache this much. His back's bruised, and his side's bruised, and everything's wet, wet, wet. It's most unpleasant.

(Green eyes, peering into him - and he screams, screams at them, at Raphael's stunned expression - screams that he doesn't care, and that it's pointless, and what are they doing here? What are any of them doing here? And it's empty, and it bleeds burns pushes - )

Noises.

They filter in next; the bang of bombs, the murmur of voices, overcoming the pulse in his ears. _Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump._ Murmur. Murmur. _Ba-dump._

There's something beside him - something in the mud. He can sense it, next to his head - and it's cold. He can tell that much.

(High, high walls, high towers - home all over again, except this time, there can be no escape. He's mad Castiel Novak - mad as he always was, locked away, pushed and shoved, shunted to one side.)

He twists his neck, although something (a very, very quiet something, very small, barely audible) screams at him not to.

Gabriel stares back at him - but it isn't Gabriel. It can't be, and it isn't Gabriel, because this man is dead. He is dead.

Blood on his hands and in his nose wet and sticking and he scrubs and rubs but nothing moves and he has a hole in him and he is spilling out all over the ground and there are cries and yells and hollers and whoops and the Cowboys are here to take him away and pull off his head and snap his neck and bury him.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"Didn't what, Cassy?" It's an old endearment; and one that does nothing to fill the empty pit in his stomach; the hole gouged into him; the piece of himself, lost somewhere in France, that he'll never find again.

"You know. You know...you know why it could never happen, even...even if..." Castiel swallows - turns, towards the door. "I'm going in. Feel free to sun yourself."

"You're going to have to admit it sometime." Gabriel's voice floats over to him, up the porch steps, past the tangle of flowers. "You can't stay like this forever."

Castiel reaches the door, and pulls it open. The house, he realises smells of must. Outside is so much sweeter - almost honeyed.

"He's gone. He's gone, and he isn't coming back. Why do you keep pretending he could?"

Castiel speaks quietly; but he knows Gabriel can hear him, because Gabriel's a part of him. Really, he shouldn't have to move his lips at all.

"Because he can. He will. He is."

"Don't lie to me!"

Castiel whirls on him, as suddenly as he can - which is still acceptably fast. He may be an old man, but he's not that old - not in his head, at least. And seeing as this is all in his head, his brain is surely playing a pretty important role. Fingers dig into his palms, hooking into soft flesh.

 

_Why shouldn't we be different?_

 

. 

 

_January 2, 1916_

 

He has a hole, in him. His eyes are open. There's blood on his clothes, and it's trickling downwards. Castiel scrabbles away - backwards, over the ground. There's lice in his clothes, eating away at the back of his neck, at his armpits, at his chest. All of the tender points, rotten.

(In the summer, they used to go blackberry-picking. They used to come off the hedgerows, if you pulled hard enough. Anna could never reach high enough, so Castiel would get hers for her, too. Dean would laugh, and Castiel would laugh, and Anna would smile.

Afterwards, they would take them home, and mother would mash them into something resembling a meal. Father would say grace, and Anna would nudge Castiel's foot underneath the table.

Then, he would go down to the garden. Castiel would sit against the wall. Sometimes, he'd work on the land - often, he'd work on the land. It wouldn't take care of itself - and Dean would stand beside him, in the tool shed, and tell him how to angle the shears, as the dust motes floated in front of his face.

They were long, hot summers. The nights were balmy, and rich, and filled with stars.)

Gabriel has a hole in him. The blood that spurted out of him was purple-blue. Now, it is turning red.

(The garden wouldn't take care of itself, after all.)

There are hands, on Castiel's arms, yanking him upright - but he screams, and screams, and doesn't stop. He has sweat on the back of his neck. 

 

 

Time passes.

(They call it convalescense - as he is stuffed into a truck, and driven away, and away, and away, the trenches receding into smears, and then splashes, and then holes. Hours and hours of mineshafts.) 

Time passes, and he remembers - remembers staring into men's eyes, and watching them fall. They never saw it coming, really. All thought they were going to make it home; all thought they were special, chosen. Heroes. Life makes mockeries of us all.

(They call it healing - call it an institution, where there is no light, and no air, and no freedom.)

Time passes, with monotonous regularity, and he remembers - remembers blood and mud and gore, and fluid spattering his fingertips, and empty eyes, staring back at him. He remembers cigarette smoke, and lights on the horizon, and bombs falling. He remembers this, because he cannot forget it.

(The driver smokes, in the jeep. There is a man beside Castiel. He is kicking out. His feet are flailing. He is hammering the sides. He is yelling. There is no name in it.) 

(It's the same, every day - in and out, in and out. Men with fractured skulls, and twisted limbs, and broken hearts - yelling, yelling, and finally, finally, growing quiet. Sometimes, it's like he's the only one there at all. Sometimes, it doesn't.)

He remembers walking, and finding bodies by the side of the road, on a cold, clear morning. The man was German - and Lucifer was shaking him, telling him to show them the way back to the trenches. The German couldn't. He was long gone.

He remembers cobbles beneath his boots, and fire in his skull, and grass-green orbs; he remembers the sweet tang of honey, and salt, and blood. He remembers; because it's all he can do, now. He remembers Balthazar - but not singing, flailing and choking and gasping for air, desperate, desperate, desperate. Afraid. Frightened.

He remembers hot hands on his skin, in the corners of elbows; remembers warm arms around him, as a child, as a boy. He remembers stars above his head, and the strength of laughter, and unity.

He remembers hands, shoving him forwards, out of the path of a sniper's bullet.

He remembers falling.

He remembers seeing Gabriel.

He remembers Gabriel - devilish humour and sniggers and flopping, waving hair, all limbs and angles, never quite comfortable with a rifle.

There is no more Gabriel to remember, now, because there is no more Gabriel.

He's gone.

At night, he dreams of Gabriel, and not-Gabriel, and breath catching in his throat, and Anna; that day in the station, growing thinner and thinner, paler and paler, wasting away - and, some nights (some beautiful, magical nights) he dreams of Dean, and nurses the pain inside, and allows it to flower - spreading vines through his body, below pale flesh, pulsing through his veins, emptying everything else out.

Time passes.

 

.

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

"I've got to get out of here," Dean says, and then Castiel says: 

"Excuse me?" Like he's got a right to speak. 

"I don't - I'm dreaming. I'm making this up." 

"I'm real," Castiel says. "I'm definitely real." 

"No, you - " Dean stops. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever. I'm gonna - take a walk. Okay?" 

"No," Castiel says. "You're going to leave. You can't, you're meant to be here." 

"I'm not. Look. I've got a brother, back home. I need to be with him." 

"I have a sister," Castiel says. "I'm still my own person." 

"Yeah, but we're different. I don't expect you to understand." 

Castiel shrugs. "Maybe I don't. I am a child." 

"Precisely." Castiel raises both eyebrows. Dean sighs. "That ain't what I - " 

"Was supposed to say? Around sick children, you have to measure your words." Castiel folds his arms over his chest. "Don't you?" 

"You're sick?" 

"Almost undoubtedly." Castiel exhales. His shoulders stick through his shirt. "Now you know. Are you still going? Or is pity keeping you tethered here?" 

"I don't get it. Do you want me to stay, or - ?" 

"I do. But you need to." 

"I don't. I can't. I've got my brother. I've got a life. I can't just, just leave it all!" 

"You could," Castiel says. "You're not honour bound." 

 

**XVII**

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"Thing is," Gabriel says, "you've had time. You've had time, and time, and time again. And I - didn't. Do you see my problem?" 

Castiel nods. 

"No, you don't. Not really. But that's alright. I forgive you. I _always_ forgive you. I forgive you, and I forgive you, and I forgive you, until there isn't room for anything else." 

"I don't understand." 

"Of course you don't. You don't understand. And that's alright. I forgive you. You mess up, and I cover your tracks, and I forgive you. I forgive you for what you've done. Are you hearing this? Me? I can't _stop_." 

Castiel looks at him. Gabriel's eyes are wild. He is every inch the madman. 

"You are my best friend," Castiel tells him. "In all the world." 

Gabriel's shoulders slump. His chin goes down to his chest. He exhales. Every breath he draws seems to pain him. "I know," he says. "I do. I know that. I know."

 

**XVIII**

 

_Fact:_

_Spreading compost regularly adds valuable nutrients to soils, which may otherwise be lacking, depending on the environment in which you live._

 

.

 

_April 21, 1980_

 

Dean's sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, when the man arrives.

He's short, and stocky; brown eyes, brown hair. If he stood next to Sam, he'd come up to his chin, tops. He's wearing an army uniform, and a brown cap, and big, black boots.

The door is not open, and he's here, anyway - standing in the centre of the kitchen, and holding Cas's mug.

"You Americans and your coffee," he says. "What do you do, leech off it? Do you suck all the necessary nutrients for your day out of its blackened depths? Tea's not good enough for you, eh?"

"If you're a ghost," Dean says, "could you send Cas down, please? I don't have time for any - spiritual bullshit."

The soldier snorts. "Spiritual bullshit? Is that what I am? Cassy said you were polite."

Dean's head snaps up, entirely of its own accord. He doesn't mean for it to happen. It just - does. "Cas? You know Cas?"

The man nods. "Sure do, Dean-o. He told me a lot about you. Said you'd be lonely, after he went. Told me to...keep an eye on you. Make sure you were eating. And not drinking - that." Gabriel gestures towards Dean's mug. Dean pulls it closer towards himself.

There seems to be more to this than what he is saying.

"Coffee's fine. Better than tea, anyway."

The man snorts. "Of course." He shakes his head. "Americans. You're all the same."

"And you British ain't?"

"Naturally. We're brilliant. Never lacking in vibrance. Never-" The man pulls out a chair, and sits down, plopping his feet onto the table-top. His boots leave stains. "-lacking in company. Parties every night, more beer than you can dream of - and tea. Sweet, beautiful tea."

"I ain't lonely," Dean mutters, into his palms.

"Then what are you?"

Dean takes a breath; takes another. "Tired," he answers. "That's it."

The man nods. "Well, maybe it's time you should be bucking up, boyo. Wars won't win themselves. And all that." 

"Uh?" 

 

.

 

_July 30, 1915_

 

The night Dean Winchester kisses Castiel Novak, it all happens too fast.

One second, they're talking - arguing - and the next, Cas has him up against the wall, and he's got hands in his hair, carding through, and a tongue in his mouth, hot and slick and wet and sliding.

Their teeth knock together, scraping by; and Cas draws in a breath, against his lips, and Dean wants to force closer, wants more and more and more and more, until he bursts.

Castiel's warm, in front of him. His cheeks are flushed, and his shirt's half-open. Dean's fingers work at the buttons - one after another, fumbling with them. Castiel's breath catches; his fingers dig in, tight, like he's got to hold himself up with something.

Dean doesn't take come any closer, because this cannot be happening. Not to him. Cas is a child, and he is a man.

Castiel's fingers are shaking, in the folds of his clothes. There's heat in the pool of Dean's abdomen, and tingling in his fingers, and buzzing in his ears.

This can't be happening to him.

Castiel's mouth is open, slightly - like he's going to speak, but he can't think of a single thing to say. There are dark shadows, underneath his eyes.

Dean steps back, and loses the warmth, and, for once in his life, does the right thing.

Castiel's lips quiver. His eyes widen. He looks so very, very young. He's wearing a white, button-down shirt, and has bare feet.

Dean does the right thing.

 

**XIX**

 

_January 2, 1916_

 

Someone screams his name, so close by that his ears ring. Imagine it, picture it: that cry, the yell. It's Gabriel, and his heart is breaking, and Castiel wants to tell him that it's alright, but it isn't; it isn't. 

In the books Castiel used to read, they said that as you fell, you thought of something. Of someone. Someone you cared about. 

Castiel fully expected Dean's name to be on his lips, and Dean's eyes to be in his mind, but they're not. 

 

.

 

_Why shouldn't we be different?_

 

"Because you've still got a chance! This is it, Castiel! You can live in the past, or you can live!" Gabriel grits his teeth, flashing brightly - and he's illuminated, lightning up the dusky evening - glorious.

"What's the point? What's the point of it? He isn't coming back! I don't have anything to live for!"

And that, at last, is the truth - the whole truth, at the end of his life. Castiel Novak is a lonely creature, and he has no one to live for. No one and nothing.

And the worst part is, everything could have been different. He could be lying on a front lawn in England, with the man he loves (loves) and the sister he adores. They could be lolling, borne up on the breeze - and it could all be true.

And then Gabriel is set aflame.

Castiel closes his eyes; but Gabriel's still there, making him stumble and stoop and stagger.

"You," he says, "have a chance. That's more than I had! That's more than I'll ever have!"

Castiel covers his ears - because he can't hear this, he can't hear this now. Not now. Not when he's so close-

"Gabriel-"

"Listen to me! The wisteria wind upwards, visibly whitening beneath the glare - and Castiel must be, too, because nothing can escape it. He hopes that Charlie will be alright, when the floodgates are opened, and the rain comes rolling in. "You have a chance to be happy, Castiel! Happy, with the man you love! You said you wanted his memory - so open your eyes, and find him! Because I can't help you. I wanted to, and I thought I'd be enough, but I'm not, I'm not, I'm not." 

And Castiel's lost - lost - and there's nothing left, nothing - and if he listens hard enough, he can make out the murmurs of voices, just beyond his comprehension. There are soft hands, covering his skin. He opens his eyes.

 

.

 

_Escallonia (escallonia)_

_Escallonia is a genus of around forty five species of flowering plants. They are, in the majority, evergreen shrubs, reaching from five to ten feet in height. The genus escallonia is generally attributed to South America._

_Many hybrids of this species has been developed, including Crimson Spire, Pride of Donard, and Apple Blossom._


	7. Chapter 7

**XX**

  
_Fact:_  
 

_Pruning is vital for a plant; it improves air circulation around it, controls growth, defines shape, reduces the chance of infection, creates flowering (or fruiting) branches for the following season, and removes dead, damaged or diseased areas. As such, it should be undertaken often._

_Spring-flowering shrubs should be pruned in June; however, August is the best month, as it is when the growth of most plants begins to slow.  
_

_For box plants, remember to spray the hedge lightly with water beforehand, in order to lower the amount of sap sticking to the shears._  
 

  
.  
 

_April 21, 1980_

  
   
Gabriel won't leave him alone. He tails him to the bedroom; slouches by the wall, cigarette poised between two fingers.

"Could you stop following me?"

"No can do, kiddo." Gabriel takes a drag of his cigarette, long and deep. "I'm looking out for you. Get that? I mean, you could try to force me out...but I am a ghost. I do have...abilities."

"Like what?"

Gabriel smirks. "That's for me to know, and you to find out. Just think...if I'm a thought, what could I do to...I don't know...other thoughts?"

Dean glowers. It doesn't seem to terrify - or even remotely frighten.

Huh. He must be losing his touch.

Gabriel stubs his cigarette out against the wall. He stares at it consideringly. 

"Hey! That's my property!"

Gabriel shrugs. "We're housemates. We've got to learn to live with each other. Unless, of course, you want your most intimate memories to fade into the woodwork."

"Yeah, but not like that!" Dean scrabbles up out of bed; the floor's slippery beneath him, but he manages to get in front of Gabriel. Fortunately, he has the height advantage. It makes him feel a little better. "Get out of my head, and don't you - you dare mess with my mind! You have no right to be here!"

"Oh, really?" Gabriel laughs; it's short, and fake. "While you were bemoaning losing your love life, who was looking after him? Who went to the trenches with him?"

"Alright, alright, keep it down."

"Who shoved the rats out of the dug-out? Picked the lice off his back? Shared their tea ration?" Gabriel steps forward, and jabs a finger into his chest. "Tea ration! Think on, lover boy!"

"No need to get - defensive! And stop callin' me that!"

"What? Lover? You were in love with him, weren't you? Unless I was very much mistaken."

"Not - not like that." 

"It's funny - I always thought so highly of you, because of him. But you weren't there, were you? You weren't the one who - " 

A mouth snaps shut. Rain drops down the pane, pitter-pattering onto the porch. He needs to be out there; needs to feel the hum of the bees, against his skin, dripping onto his closed eyes.

"Who died," Dean finishes. "Right?"

Gabriel doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. The answer's all over his face.   
 

.  
   

_May 2, 1914_

 

"Quiet tonight, Sam."

A smattering of raindrops tap against the window, putter-pattering on the pane. Putter. Patter. Again. Again. Again.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed. He is staring at the ceiling. Castiel's legs are inches away from his thigh. Cas is wearing blue flannel pyjamas, and no socks.

"You'd have been a man," Dean says. "You're a man, somewhere. You havin' a party, Sammy? Gotta save some girls for me. Can't leave your brother out, right? Know I'm the best one there."

Dean rocks back, and pulls up the covers. Castiel's lying there, unmoving. He's got a bed head - a real bad one. Gonna gripe about it in the morning, probably - shoo Dean out of the room 'til he's done. Vain.

Cas doesn't look so grown up, when he's sleeping. Doesn't look like the same boy who smiles about Anna's ladyfriends. Girls ain't changed much, since the present. Girls ain't changed at all.

"Thing is, Sammy, I don't think I'll - don't think I'll make it. You'll have to cut the - the cake without me. You never used to want to, and dad - do you remember what he said? Said you were too little to hold a knife. Used to make me."

Dean snorts out a laugh. "I got up in the morning, and I went out in the garden, and I picked you buttercups. They were out on the lawn, weren't they? Sure did love those, even though you said - said you didn't. I knew. Don't worry."

Castiel's body makes a dip in the mattress. His chest rises and falls, rises and falls. The top button's open, on his shirt. Dean can see the line of his collar bone; the slight slant of hair, running across it.

"Don't - don't regret anything, alright? Don't regret. Don't waste time."  
Castiel lies still, and silent. Dean matches his breaths. Their chests are aligned. They almost touch. He could reach out, and take hold of one of his wrists, and pin it against the blanket.

Instead, Dean begins to cry. He doesn't intend to. He sits on the end of the bed, in his jeans and his t-shirt and his boots and his jacket, and he cries, and cries, and cries, and it hurts. He dips his head down, and he cries, because that is what pain makes you do. It makes you ache, all the way from the inside to the out.  
 

  
.

  
_  
July 30, 1915_

  
   
That night, after Castiel falls asleep - after the fight - Dean sits on the edge of his bed.  
Cas still looks young - really young. Stupidly young. Too young for this - all of this. Too young to be out there.

Dean's watched the documentaries.He went to class. He knows how the story goes. It's 1915, now. There's another three years, until it's over.

Three years. Three years in which Cas could be blown up, or shot, or gassed, or - or anything. Anything could happen to him, and Dean wouldn't be able to lift a finger.  
Dean's going with him. That much is for certain. But how much can he do, really? He can't halt a bullet - can't block a shot. He may be a ghost, but he's no Superman. There's no way he's gonna be able to stop Cas from going out; no matter how much he wants to.  
It doesn't count that he would do it. That's not how this game works. He'd take a bullet for Cas. He'd get shot for Cas. He'd do it.

And that is the moment when Dean knows that he is, categorically and unequivocally, done for.  
 

  
.  
 

 

_April 21, 1980_

  
   
"I don't want you here."

"No. I can see that."

"Jesus, this ain't a guilt trip! Just...go!"

"Where? It's not as though I can leave."

"Why? What's keeping you here? Ain't ghosts meant to...I dunno...move along?"

"Yes. They are."

"So why aren't you?"

"Because...because I'm special, Dean-o. That's why."

"I ain't drunk enough for this."

"I'd imagine not."  
 

  
.

 

_July 30, 1915_

 

There are hands - all over his skin, gingerly, softly, tracing the lines of his chest, dipping in and out with his breath.

_Does it hurt?_

Dean shakes his head; because no, this is the opposite of pain. This is beauty. Larkspur. Beautiful spirit - that's what he told Cas, once. Beautiful spirit. Beautiful.  
The fingers are moving, again; prodding and probing, sweeping over him, careful not to press too hard. Dean wants the pressure - wants them to find their way in, and take hold of him, and never let him go. He wants this body over his; they're cocooned, sealing in the light, leaving them in their own bubble of sound and heat and touch.

_You're beautiful._

Dean laughs - at least, he thinks it's a laugh. At this point, he can't tell. _No, I ain't._

The brow furrows. _Yes, you are. I've never seen anything like you._

_Not as though you've been out much, is it?_

A hand stops; it pauses, over his abdomen. It rises and falls, with the movement of his chest. The other lands on the bed cover, creating ripples in the sheets.

_You're beautiful._

And then the man ducks his head down, eyes big and wide and blue, and kisses him. Kisses. Him. Softly, at first - and then harder, like he knows what he's doing, when he can't. Dean would've known, if anything like this had happened. He'd have had to watch.  
The breath is against his chest, in the hollow of his collar-bone, and their bodies are aligned. They fit together, almost. Lips move, against his mouth. Dean closes his eyes; he feels stubble scrape across his chin.

They part. The man's hands curl into the sheets, on either side of Dean's shoulders.

They're nearly fisted.

Dean leans up, and takes that face in his palms. The man sucks in a breath; watches, as Dean lowers his eyes to his lips - follows his gaze back up, incredulous, eyes narrowing. He's gotta know what that means. You'd have to be an idiot not to.

 _Cas_ , Dean says.

Castiel's pulse is steady. In the dark, with dust all around, their breaths match.

 

  
.  
 

  
_April 21, 1980_

  
   
"So, tell me, Mr Ghost - if you're Cas's friend, why haven't I heard about you?" Dean opens the bottle. A little stream of it runs onto the counter, dripping down into the sink.

"He didn't say?" Gabriel's shrug is practically audible. "Figures."

"Why?" Dean turns; raises the bottle to his lips, and takes a long, deep gulp. It's cooling.

"Cas...he's..." Gabriel tails off. "Have you ever tried opening up a tin of beans with your fingernails?"

"Can't say that I have," Dean says, not bothering to keep tabs on his snorting.

"You should try it sometime. It isn't easy. It scratches, and it scrapes - and even if you get in, the messy stuff gets all over your shirt. See what I mean?"

"Nope."

Gabriel frowns. "If you keep drinking like that, you'll give yourself an aneurysm."

"The day I care is the day I'll stop."

  
.

  
   
_July 31, 1915_

  
   
Dean's eyes shoot open. He can taste his own breath. 

"Cas," he says, to the blank ceiling.

Beside him, there is no warmth - no movement - no familiar form, to press against his own. The dream is over, now. Dean blinks; starts to his feet, spinning around. The bed is empty, and Castiel Novak is gone.  
 

**XXI**

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

Castiel is young. He has not joined the war. The war has not been announced. He stands in his father's office - where the papers are stacked neatly, in perfect order, and where the debts mount like avalanches, bringing down one opportunity after enough, until (in the end) there's nothing left.

That is what father said, in the parlour room. He has a theatrical turn, mother claims.

Anna's beside him, white as white can be - and they're both listening, as words slip through the cracks in the walls, the streak of light beside the door. Outside, mother's crying. It makes Castiel's stomach churn.

"There's nothing we can do?"

That's father - Castiel would recognise that voice anywhere. But it's different from usual; it isn't the same self-assured tone, that informs him that he has to stand up straight, raise his chin in the air, say please and thank you, from behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. You'll be the master of this house one day, Castiel. You need to be prepared to provide.

Right now, Castiel can't imagine providing for anyone.

"I'm sorry," another man says, voice low, deliberately, glaringly, gratingly hushed - and Castiel wants to rush to the door, tear the words out. "The condition does progress slowly. She could have five years - maybe more, if she takes care of herself. But it is incurable. Unless it ceases entirely, which - the likelihood of it is almost nothing. I'm sorry." 

Incurable. The word floats in his head - and he can't fully comprehend his meaning, although he should be able to - knows what it means, rather. You can't be thirteen years of age and not know these things. That would be absurd. Mother's gasps grow louder; shadows dance on the floor. Castiel watches them. His sister's fingers twine with his - warm, and small, and solid.

"A sanatorium, did you say?" It's Mother, this time. 

Anna's hair sticks up in tufts, on her forehead; it springs out of the hurried ponytail it had been forced into, falling haphazardly. She looks a lot younger than ten - much too young for incurable. Castiel smiles down at her, as much as he can (which isn't much at all) and doesn't let go.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"Cas. Hey, Cas, it's alright. I've got you." And Gabriel's crouching before him, on the ground - and Castiel has no idea how he ended up there, but when he tries to question it, the words won't come.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry." But when he looks up, Gabriel's still smiling - softly, gently, the edges of his eyes crinkling - and there's a hand on his cheek, brushing past the lines, until only a young boy remains, and one who is frightened. 

"Cassy, it's alright." Fingers run over his skin; softly, gently, brushing away the water, wiping the pain clean. "You didn't make me push you away. You didn't make me take that bullet. That was all me. And you know what?"

"No," Castiel says, words shaking, struggling, "no. You don't understand. It's all - all leaves to you, isn't it? They blow away, and you have no trouble left." 

 

.

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

Incurable. The word buzzes in his head - a bee, hopping between flowers (annual, perennial), leaving its pollen behind. So, he follows it. Castiel Novak follows the bee.

He follows it after they've all gone to bed; the house is hushed. Quiet. Reverent - and somehow, something has shifted. He can't name it, exactly - but something's changed.

It's in his sister's laboured breathing, in the room next door - in her slight coughs, as she twitches beneath the blankets. It's in the bare planks beneath his feet, creaking and groaning with age, as he descends the stairs. It's in the muted voices, as he passes the library door. Through it, he can make out shapes. In a fleeting glance, he identifies his parents. Father has his arms around mother. She's still crying.

Castiel Novak follows the bee, and it leads him into the road, and down the path, and past the roses, and I to the garden - and the gravel stabs at the soles of his feet, as the trees loom overhead. Castiel doesn't look up - just puts one foot in front of the other.

Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. Meaning: he's going to lose her, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. Meaning: this. 

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

"It's alright, Cassy. I don't - I'm not - " 

"No. I...I can't hear you say that, Gabriel. Not after this. Not after all this. Please."

"Castiel." 

" _Please_."

 

.

 

_September 2, 1916_

 

_"Je pense qu'il est assez charmant."_

Time in the asylum passes - slowly. He keeps himself to himself, and tries not to focus on the screaming. Often, it doesn't work. Sleep offers no relief. The dreams grows vibrant, and vivid, and emerald-tinted. Sometimes, he wakes, and finds his voice joining the chorus - and he lets it, allows it to grow in volume, until (one day) he doesn't.

_"Il est interessant. Parles-vous français, mon petit fleur?"_

"You've gotta get out of here, Cassy." Gabriel reproaches him from the far wall, horns sprouting from his tufted hair. They're tall, and black, and dark - smoke coils from them, rising upwards, reaching towards the light. Castiel reels back, in horror.

_"Il peut nous entendre, Mégane!"_

Atop the beaten sheets, he rises, and walks.

He's back in the garden, the paths as familiar to him as his own face - he trails his fingertips over the thorns. Blood blooms on his fingertips, rolling down his arm, coating his skin - and he cranes his head to the sky, and sees only darkness, and barbs, and ravens, circling ever nearer.

_"Non. Il ne peut pas."_

He can still hear the bombs, as he lies awake - falling, falling, falling.

The nurses converse in French, softly, to one another. Castiel never did learn, but he recognises it. Occasionally, he hazards a timid 'bonjour', to a girl with long, dark hair. She stares at him, wide-eyed, and (after a fragment of time) coos, bird-like: "Non. Il ne peut pas." 

 

.

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

Castiel follows the forest path: the less-trod path - and that must be a good thing, surely. In mother's stories, those who follow the less-trod path are always rewarded - and now, today, Castiel needs a reward. He needs help - but the forest has nothing to give but darkness, and raindrops, dripping from the tips of leaves, onto dirt and half-starved plants he can't name.

Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. Of course he knows what it means - who wouldn't?

They peer up from the dirt, craning their necks towards him - judging him, and he doesn't want to see them, wants to run. He wants to run, more than anything - just run and run, into the distance, and never come back. But he keeps his steps measured, even though he speeds up slightly - ever so slightly. It wouldn't be good to be seen doing that; most ungentlemanly, most unseemly.

So, he continues to walk, ever so slightly faster than before - and wipes his hand across his eyes, and prays for a miracle. There are some small miracles that can be wished for.

 

.

 

_August 15, 1979_

 

Gabriel holds onto him, tight; and, as Castiel rocks against him, is immovable. His body is cold.

"Please," Castiel says, "don't."

But Gabriel goes right on ahead, and says it anyway, because that's the man he is. 

 

**XXII**

 

_Fact:_

_April is, usually, the best month to plant orchids._

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

Dean runs down the stairs, thundering, making slamming foot-falls against the carpet - and he can't be late, he can't be, he isn't going to be - and he's flying through the hall doors, and tearing out into the garden - and he needs to get past the rose bushes, and they scrape at his skin - and he stops, and stares, because -

Red tulips mean undying affection. A declaration of love. A promise.

Dean knows that - he's known it since he could read. But the thing is...there's a tulip. Right there. And it's flowering.

Tulips aren't supposed to flower in summer.

 

.

 

_September 20, 1914_

 

Castiel's hair is warm in Dean's fingers. Downstairs, somebody's moving around. It's probably Anna - always racing around somewhere, no matter what people tell her.

A miracle, they called her. A miracle child.

Cas doesn't look anything like Sammy, anymore. They were both small, when they were little - big-eyed, too. Sam's all grown-up, now. Dean wonders where he is. Wonders what he's doing. Wonders if he's found that girl he was searching for. There's gotta be someone out there, right? Someone for everyone.

Sam's all grown-up, now. Probably got a girl of his own. Nice house, nice job, nice car. Good life.

"Dean," Castiel mumbles, against his palm. Dean feels his breath catch.

"Hey there, Cas," he says. "What's up?"

Castiel says something incomprehensible. Dean blinks.

"Read me something."

"What?"

"Read me something," Castiel repeats. "Please."

"Alright. Reading. Cool. Anything - err - in particular?"

"Anything," Castiel says.

Dean nods. Picking up the book, he opens it. It's light, in his hands. The pages are neat.

"Part one," he says, "an introduction to basic plant varieties."

Castiel hums. "Plants require five main components to grow: moisture, light - " 

"Heat, space and nourishment." Dean smiles. "Shut it, bitch." 

 

.

 

_April 21, 1980_

 

His name is Gabriel, and he served in the British Regular Army, from 1915 to 1916. He was unmarried, had no children, and lived in a small town in Hertfordshire. He enjoyed horse riding, when he could scrape together the cash, and painting. Before he joined the army, he was an artist - not a very good one, but an artist.

In 1916, he was shot in the head, whilst saving a fellow solider.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who that soldier was.

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

When Dean wakes, he has a thumping headache, and he's lying on the floor. This can't be a good thing - especially not because of the light.

"Rise and shine, sleepy head," the voice tells him, with manic glee. Dean moans. "Ah, that would be the whiskey. What glass were you on? Your second? Third?"

"Ugh."

"That would be third. Now get up, and look sharp." Gabriel peers through the curtains, eye pressed against the window. "There's a journalist coming."

Dean sits bolt upright. " _Who_?" 

 

**XXIII**

 

_September 18, 1917_

 

The cooing nurse calls herself Meg, and speaks some English. She's got a strong accent, certainly - but Castiel can make out most of what she's saying. That's a good thing, in his opinion. It's nice to have company again. She does most of the talking - but he listens, which he thinks is what's required of him. He's always been good at that - prides himself on it. There isn't much left for him to take pride in, nowadays, what with the War Effort. The Effort you put in. 

For some reason, the other nurses don't seem to like Meg. She seems (to Castiel, at least) pleasant enough; a little forward, a little too smart, but pleasant enough. Charming, even. But that doesn't take away from the looks she gets; the dirty sideways glances, out of the corners of their eyes. Castiel watches, and observes - but does nothing. What can he do?

He has a feeling, anyway, that they may be connected to him, too - as Meg's hand brushes his own, and she wields her gaze like a blade, defying any to meet it. They don't, and she glides on, with a ruffle of his hair. He stares after her, bemused, and runs a hand through it. His scalp buzzes - and he feels cold, keenly.

There truly is something different about Meg. When he figures it out, he might just care.

 

.

 

_July 9, 1909_

 

Castiel is kneeling in the grass, and he is making daisy chains. His fingers are fumbling. He's sweating. There are bees.

 _She won't run the house,_ Castiel says. _She's a woman._

_Who knows? The little miss might surprise you._

_She won't,_ Castiel says. _She's going to get married, and then her husband will own her house._

Joshua nods. _Hm. You been talkin' to your daddy?_

 _Yes,_ Castiel says. He isn't entirely positive whether this is the right answer. _When I'm married, my wife will come and live here with me._

_Well, what if she's got a nicer house? What happens then?_

_She won't have a house. She'll live with me. We're going to be in love._

_You're certain of that?_

_Yes._

_How will you know if she's the right one? She might be pretty as a picture. Ain't no good if she's a crow._

Castiel frowns.  _How can you be both?_

 _Very easily,_ Joshua replies. 

_She won't be. She'll be lovely, and nice, and want to stay here. I'll make sure of it._

_And how will you do that, mister Cas?_

_I'll be a gentleman. And if she wants to leave, I'll tell her all about the flowers._

Joshua scratches his chin. _What'll that do?_

_It will make her happy, because it makes me happy._

_What works for one don't always work for the other._

_If she doesn't like flowers, she can go as far away as she pleases. And she can take her shoes and her dresses with her, too._ Joshua chuckles, belly deep and rumbling. _What are you gonna do? Marry a gardener?_

 _Joshua,_ Castiel says. _Are you propositioning me?_

Joshua laughs until he cries.

 

.

 

_It's not a very ladylike thing to do, is it? Gardening._

_No,_ Joshua says, _I don't suppose you'd think so, but look. I'm gonna tell you something, and you listen good._

 _I will,_ Castiel says.

Joshua tips down his hat. The brim shades his eyes. _Back home in America,_ he says, _my mother was a dressmaker. She made clothes for all them fine folks -_

_Like me._

_Who could afford it. Like your daddy._ Joshua peers at him, and smiles, moustache wiggling. _She made beautiful stuff - out of silver and blue and gold-red fabrics. They were so soft, you could run your fingers along them, and you'd barely feel a thing._

_One night, we were sitting down to eat, and we heard a knock at the door. My da told me to answer it, which I did. In those days, you couldn't ever say no to your da, even if your plate was turning cold._

_I opened up the door, and I looked outside. And in the yard, there was this - this big crowd of men. Much taller than me, much older. Some had their fists curled up, like this - and some of them were chewing, and their eyes were flinty. Cold._

_So, after we'd sized each other up a little bit, one of them stepped forward. He was a right bruiser - nose knocked to the side from some fight or other. 'Son,' that man said to me, 'is your daddy home?'_

_I was in trouble. You see, on the one hand, I didn't like the way this man was out for my da. On the other hand - these boys were pretty darn big. I didn't fancy my chances in a brawl with one of them, neither - never mind six, or seven, or eight._

_"I'm standing there, trying my level best not to spit out my diner, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder. 'Hello,' my mother says. 'What's going on?' "'Nothing much, miss,' the man says. 'We'd just like a word with your husband.'_

_"Now, my mother was a pretty small woman, truth be told - not much bigger than you, really. But she looked at them men like they weren't any more than babies. 'That's ma'am, to you,' she said, 'Elijah Brown - and if you've got something to say to my husband, you can come right out and say it to me.'_

_And what did that man do? He looked at his friends, and he shuffled his feet, and he said, 'Sorry, ma'am,' and went off home. We never had trouble from him again, although God knows there was trouble. Too much trouble for an old man to remember. Criss-cross the country, we did._

_"But you know what I learned that day, mister Cas?"_ Joshua smiles, lazily. Castiel shakes his head. _You should never underestimate a woman. She could have anything up them sleeves._ _  
_

 

.

 

_December 22, 1917_

 

"When I was a young girl, I used to want to travel to the moon."

"Really?"

There are no flowers in space. There's the moon, and his pale face, reflecting the glow back. 

Meg nods, fingers interlocking. Her nails are long, and pointed - filed into spikes. "It was my dream. I liked it." She pulls up a seat, half-smiling; she places a cup of water beside his bed. "Drink up."

Castiel obeys. After he's done, he says: "What made you stop?"

Meg shrugs, a smirk flitting onto her lips. "La vie. It makes monsters of all of us, don't you think? We can't help what we want. What we need."

"La vie?"

"Life, Mr Novak. Life makes us monsters."

Meg straightens out his bedclothes. They're white. Castiel's hands are red, and peeling. He scratches at the skin.

Beside him, a yell starts up - and then Meg hurries away, to wheel the patient off, because there is no hope left. Castiel doesn't raise a finger - simply turns his head away, until the fire his passed, and the bombs have grown silent.

 

.

 

_July 10, 1909_

 

They play lions in the long grass. It is simple: you lie on your stomach, and you part the fronds. 

Anna is easy prey. Her dresses are always bright. She flattens herself out onto her stomach. Her claws dig into Castiel's palm. He lunges forwards, reaching towards her, but his arms close around dirt, and it falls through his arms. He scrambles for her remains. He can't keep up. 

Anna's lips are mouthing words, but she is riddled with shell shock, writhing up and down, feet blue and swollen, hands shaking, and Castiel's hands are on her shoulders, and he's saying _stay still, stay still_ , but she's screaming, and then she isn't moving anymore. 

Castiel brings his hands away, and scrambles back. The roots tangle over Anna's body. They rise up and pull her down, and Castiel reaches towards them, trying to pull them back, but there are too many, and her face is being eaten by the worms, eyes falling into her skull. 

 

.

 

_September 21, 1914_

 

 _Dean,_ Castiel says, and Dean looks up, and he smiles. _Are you happy? Here? With me?_

Dean nods. _'Course,_ he says, but the lie spirals away from him, and Castiel doesn't catch it. _Look. Look at that butterfly, Cas. Look at it go!_ And Dean's points upwards, so very happy. 

 _I can't see it,_ Castiel says. Dean beckons him in, grinning. Castiel goes willingly. 

 _Look harder,_ Dean says, and smiles. 

Castiel kisses him. Dean kisses back. They roll into the grass. Castiel's hands go to Dean's shoulders. Dean looks up at him. 

 _I'm not good enough,_ Castiel tells him, _not for you. Not for this. I don't deserve this._

Dean frowns; his forehead puckers. _Why not?_

_Because - because I'm different, now. I've changed. I'm not the boy you knew. I've grown up._

_No, you haven't,_ Dean says. _You're just a kid. Eighteen and beautiful. Ain't that right, Cas?_

Castiel shakes his head. _I'm not. I promise you, I'm not. I'm -_ He does not know how old he is, so he does not continue. _I've changed._

 _Look harder._ Dean's hands stroke along his sides. They come to rest on his hips. _Look at me._

Castiel looks. Dean's biting his lip. He has flushed cheeks. He's staring into Castiel's eyes, and there's a low heat in Castiel's stomach, a creeping warmth, tendrils spreading into his chest and filling it. 

_You don't care for me. Not really._

_I do,_ Dean whispers. _Please. I do. Let me prove it. Let me show you._

Castiel sits back. His legs go around Dean's thighs. _I love you,_  he says. _But I'm not in love anymore. You took that away._

_There ain't no difference._

_Yes,_ Castiel says, _there is. Love is - it's - it's always there! between us. I'll always love you. But I'm not in love. And I release you from it._

 _Cas,_ Dean says, rushing over it, but Castiel pushes him back. 

 _I'm sorry,_ he says. _Truly._

 

.

 

_February 17, 1918_

 

Time passes - slowly, creeping forward. With Meg, though, it moves quicker. Castiel isn't entirely certain what to make of this.

As Castiel sleeps, letters decorate Anna's soft skin; they lounge on the lawn, side by side. The ink stains the paper-whiteness - they pulse and push, blood-red, vibrant. Castiel's lips are sewn shut by them.

 _You've got to get out of here, Castiel,_ she informs him, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear, _it's not good for you. You could be happy._

 _How?_ he asks.

She simply smiles, enigmatic as ever, and doesn't answer. The lines on her skin blaze red, rising upwards, curling together, blending and blitzing and whirring, overcoming one another in their haste. She's more beautiful than she ever was - radiant, beneath the glare of the windswept sky. 

Castiel rests his head against her shoulder. _I miss you,_ he says. _All of you. I just want to go back home._

Anna fondles his hair. Castiel breathes in her scent, deep, but he can only smell the must, and when he wakes, he wakes yelling and soiling his sheets. 

  

.

 

_October 30, 1921_

 

He's sitting in the trench, and the sky is a brilliant amber, and there are arms around him. Exhausted, he leans into the touch, tipping his head backwards. From behind him, a low chuckle reverberates.

_Hey, easy there, tiger. It's okay._

Castiel takes a long, drawn out breath, inhaling lavender. _I missed you._

The hold he's in grows tighter; hands lock around his torso, eliciting a shiver.

 _Yeah. Yeah, I missed you, too, Cas._ Castiel sighs, turning. Dean frowns down at him. _What?_

_Nothing. You're just not usually this - like this._

_Cuddly?_ Dean begins to smile; it doesn't quite reach his eyes. _I guess we're all hurting, huh?_

_Not like me. Not like this._

_You think you're the only one in the world, Cas? Is that it?_ Each word is clipped - stinging. They blaze through Castiel's mind, creating a pit in his stomach.

Dean's eyes have darkened - and it could be Castiel's imagination, or the light, or any number of things. But somehow, those eyes are black as soot - and then the hands are close, so close, everywhere, and the birds are screaming, and he says Dean's name but no words come out and he mouths it but Dean's too far away and he reaches but there's water and mud and explosions bang bang bang and Gabriel screaming and screaming and he can't breathe, _can't breathe, can't breathe - can't breathe._

And then Castiel washes his face and prays and goes to bed. There's a seal of ice on top of the water. Castiel pushes his hands through it. It splinters apart. 

 

.

 

To pass the time, a story: one morning, there's a private. He's roughly Castiel's height, and roughly Castiel's weight, and roughly Castiel's build. They're marching along one morning - heading off to fight, over the top or back home in Blighty - when all of a sudden, bang. His head's blown clear in two. He's lying in a puddle on the ground. And then Castiel arrives, and takes his place. Or so he's been told. 

A story: one morning, there's a private. He looks nothing like Castiel. His name's Ezekiel, but in the army, they call him Zeke. He's sharing a trench with the  _rosbif_. Tommys. Brits. The names are interchangeable, at this point. Ezekiel's superior officer tells him not to trust hair nor hide of them, and he doesn't. He's a good soldier. 

There's a girl waiting for him back home. He lives in Dunkirk, which is a pretty place in over there France. The girl's name is Rosalie, or Rosanna, or Rosita. Castiel wasn't paying close attention. For the sake of argument, let's call her Rosie. 

Rosie doesn't love Ezekiel, or so he claims. It's a great tragedy. He smokes with her name on his lips, and when he wakes up in the morning in a puddle of mud, he says it like a curse. _Rose, Rosita, Rosalie_. Pick a girl. 

A true story: one night, Gabriel and Castiel are cutting through barbed wire. They're going over the top the next day. One of them holds the torch. One of them is cutting. They talk about everything and nothing for a half hour or so; but when they go back in, Gabriel says he's seen a dove. 

Of course, the others call him out on it. Zachariah tells him not to mess with good men's minds. But Castiel agrees. Corroborates. Says it was there. And now it's not just Gabriel's lie. It's Castiel's, too. And it spreads. Like wildfire. 

It was as big as Gabriel's boots. It had golden wings. It flew out of a machine gun post. It flew out of a Boche's corpse. It flew out of the ground. It grew from the earth. It wasn't a dove at all, it was an eagle. It wasn't an eagle at all, it was a swan. 

Good omens, Gabriel says, and asks around for matches. Personally, Castiel isn't so sure. 

 

.

 

When Castiel awakes, gasping, someone's standing at the foot of his bed. He starts, moving against the backboard. Beside him, a man turns over, moaning in his dreams. Heart rocketing, Castiel squints into the darkness, trying to make out the shape.

"Meg?" he says, and _orchid_ , among other things, _means beautiful lady._

Her face is stony - still - impassive. She could be a wall of rock; a cliff face, beaten by the elements; a demon, about to plunge her claws into his throat. It's rather hard to differentiate between them, in the gloom.

"Who is Dean?" Meg asks.

 

**XXIV**

 

_Fact:_

_There are many different pests within gardens, which could threaten the growth of your plants. Keep on the lookout for leaf cutter bees, if you are interested in roses; they cut into the leaves in order to make their nests._

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

The man on his doorstep has brown eyes. "Dean Winchester?" he says.

Dean nods. "That would be me."

The man smiles; those eyes crease, at the edges. Suddenly, Dean is reminded of the fact that he is hung over, the sun is too shiny, and he's in his pyjamas. And he hasn't invited the man in.

"Your friend told me about your project. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions, for my magazine. Would that be acceptable?"

This guy is way too polite for this early in the morning. And smiley. He has white teeth.

Behind him, Gabriel snorts. Loudly. "I don't know if it's escaped your notice, but it's midday."

Dean's head spins. "Shut up," Dean says. The man's face falls.

"I could always come back another day. If that'd suit."

"No, not you. Just..." Dean massages his temples, trying to block out the sound of Gabriel's cackling. "Come on in."

 

.

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

Castiel's asleep. He's got hair falling forwards, over his eyes. He's small. Dean doesn't think he was that small, when he was a kid. Sammy was, though. 'Til he hit his growth spurt, at least. His dad's stopped crying, now. He stopped hours ago, through the wall.

He can't be more than twelve, and he asked Dean not to leave him. The kid's twitching under the covers. Must be having a bad dream.

"Sorry, little guy," Dean says, and goes like a jackrabbit. 

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"He's handsome, Dean. You should give him your number."

Around the tea cup, Dean's hand tightens. "Seriously? Your best friend just died, and you're trying to set me up. Seems a little low."

"My best friend didn't die yesterday. He died three months ago. Also, mon ami, I am simply respecting said best friend's wishes. Understand?"

Dean shakes his head, stirring in sugar. "No. Cas...he wouldn't. He just wouldn't, alright?"

"Dean." 

"Leave it."

Surprisingly, Gabriel does. 

 

.

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

Dean makes it to the front door before he's stopped. He isn't _stopped_ , exactly. Nobody's _stopped_ him since he came here.

There is, however, someone in the doorway.

"Can you see me?" Dean asks. He already knows the answer he's going to get - as in, none. It's still worth trying.

The kid keeps looking outside. Her head doesn't even turn.

She's wearing a dressing gown. It looks too big for her - probably her dad's. Last Dean saw of him, he was holed up in his office, with a half-glass of brandy and the telephone. Much good may it do him.

"Cas'll get hurt," the kid tells the garden. "If I go."

It takes Dean a second to process she's not speaking to him. She's got her head bowed. Her hair's falling in front of her eyes; long, coppery waves of it, in a rumpled bed-head. She has shadows beneath her eyes.

"I don't want to go," she says, quietly. "I want to get better. I don't want to die. Everyone - everyone's saying I'll be fine, but I won't. I know I won't."

Dean looks down at her. She's filling one side of the doorway - but the other's open wide. He could step past her, and walk away, and not look back. It'd be easy. Simple.

There's the lawn, in front of her. There's dew sprinkled across it. It looks like it hasn't been cut in a while. The kid's curls gleam in the morning light. 

"I don't want to leave," she says. "You'll - you'll ruin everything, if you take me away. Please - don't, alright? I'll - I'll make you a deal."

Pink hands have bunched into fists, in her sleeves. Her cheeks sparkle. Dean feels his mouth open, and shut again.

"You look after him," the kid says, "and I'll leave. Make sure - he's - I - I don't wanna go." The last word is a sob. The kid stuffs her knuckles into her mouth, and bites down on them.

"Hey," Dean whispers. He rubs her back. "Hey. You're okay." 

The kid shivers. "He's sick enough as it is, now," she says, at last. "He doesn't need it."

On the edges of the path, the snowdrops stand to attention; they're bone-white.

Dean sits down on the step. It's cool, beneath him. His arm brushes the kid's sleeve. She doesn't look at him.

The garden is long, and green. There's a boxed up section, at the far end. It's got a bunch of common-and-gardens, inside - maybe some bluebells. What it really needs, in Dean's opinion, is African Sunset petunias - or maybe French Marigolds. They'd liven it up. Give it some colour, some fluidity.

"Alright," Dean says. "One day. I'll stay for one. And then I'm out. Okay?" 

The kid stands up. She turns around, and takes hold of the door handle. Dean moves with her, pressing himself up flat against the wall.

"Okay," Dean says. He nods his head. 

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"Sorry about the, err, tea."

The man smiles, again. He's really got to stop doing that. "It's okay, brother. I've had worse. Half a bag of sugar is fine by me."

Dean rubs at his eyes; chuckles, slightly. "Sorry. I haven't had house guests in a while."

"I understand." The man blows on his mug. "My mother died, last year. I can relate."

"I'm-" Dean starts, but is cut off by the wave of a hand.

"That doesn't help, and you know it. I thought you were smarter than that?"

Dean feels his mouth snap shut. "Yeah."

"I'm Benny," the man says, "Benny Lafitte. Kansas Evening Star."

"Dean."

Across the misted coffee table, they shake hands.

 

**XXV**

 

_August 17, 1979_

 

They sit on the porch, in the dusk; the chess board rests on his lap, the empty box of pieces by his feet. Charlie kneels at his feet, humming under her breath. The wisteria rustle. They're going to need pruning, again. The lawn's got to be tidied. Castiel's back aches.

"What song is that?"

"Philadelphia Freedom. Elton John."

Charlie raises her voice slightly, for the next verse; the words become clearer, though still mangled.

"Good," Castiel says. Charlie nudges his shoulder, moving her queen forwards a few spaces. It's a bad move, tactically. He doesn't tell her that.

Charlie stops singing, as her knight is taken. "There's a man, down in town."

"You've had a change of heart."

"Not like that. He was...he was in an accident." Charlie rubs a blade of grass, between her fingertips; the soil comes off on her hands, as she dumps the knight into the pieces box. "I saw him, today. I mean, I've seen him before today, but - he told me something."

"How was he?" Castiel asks.

Charlie shakes her head. "Not good. I mean, he'll be fine, just like normal - and then he'll say the craziest stuff, you know? And the thing is, he actually believes it. He actually believes..."

"Believes what?"

Charlis presses her lips together. "Nothing. He'll get better, right? He's got to get better. He can't...he can't keep thinking he's - he was - somewhere he wasn't. That's not gonna last forever. He was in hospital, after the - the crash. He wasn't..."

"Right," Castiel says. Charlie rests her head on his leg. He cards his fingers through her hair, softly (he thinks). "Right."

"I sound awful," Charlie snotters.

Castiel grimaces. "Perhaps."

 

.

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. The word swims - flickers - dances. Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. The trees close overhead, branches creating a canopy, knotting and winding and twisting - and they're coming for him, he knows it, he knows it - so he grits his teeth, and puts his head down, and sprints - past forest mushrooms, growing in loops around his feet, determined to snare him; vaulting branches and roots and flurries of rainwater, as the sky turns to coal.

Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. And it can't be - because this is his sister, his little sister - and he had to loom after her, he'd told father he would, he'd promised - and if you break a promise, you'll be cursed - mother had said - said - said - and he'll fall asleep for a thousand years, and he'll never wake up, because princes don't search for changelings - and he'll never see Anna again, and he'll never be able to say goodbye.

 

.

 

_Heliotropium_

_This genus of plants is part of the borage family. There are known to be something close to two hundred species in this category. Heliotropium is capable of flowering in winter, as well as mid-summer, when they are known for coming into bloom, and can stand at eighteen to twenty four inches in height._

_Their name is derived from the Greek words for sun, helios, and to turn, tropein. This is because these plants turn towards the sun - as such, a fitting title._

_Heliotropes mean devotion and faithfulness._

 

.

 

_October 30, 1921_

 

"Who is Dean?"

"No one." Meg shakes her head, hands curling into fists, bunching up the fabric of her skirt.

"He is someone. Who?" Castiel takes a breath. Tries to speak. Takes another. Tries again.

"He's my brother."

Meg shakes her head once more, eyes flashing - and there's fire in them, fire he'd never seen before. "You're lying." Castiel can't find it in himself to say no - no, Dean means nothing to him. No, Dean is his brother. No, no, no - the lies and the lies and the lies, mounting and mounting, reducing his fragile defences to grains of sand.

"I'm sorry," he says, because there is nothing else. And he is sorry. He really, truly is.

Meg smiles. It's crooked.

 

.

 

(That night, Meg kisses him. He kisses back, because it's the least he can do - she's been so very kind, throughout these moonlit hours. He owes it to her - he owes it. It's the least he can do.) 

 

From behind a screen of ivy, Dean smiles, beckoning him closer - and he takes a step, but it snares him, so he starts to tear at it, pulling it apart with his hands, hanging on, pulling hard. 

 

(Meg tastes of strawberries; there are meant to be plenty of those, in the hedgerows around here. Castiel wouldn't know - he's never seen them. He'd expected her to taste of something oilier, somehow - something slicker, something bitter, something darker-)

 

Dean's brows draw together - and his eyes are so bright, they could blaze through the tangle of branches - and one hits Castiel's feet, and he stumbles, but pulls himself upright, clinging onto another. 

 

(He feels something ripple through him, coarse and unexpected, as her hands stick in his hair, tangling there. A finger strokes down the side of his cheek, running along the beard-scruff; and he leans closer, and says - )

 

 _Come on, Cas, what are you waiting for?_ Dean's voice is distorted; as though he's speaking through glass, a mirror, water. Castiel wants to tell him that he'll drown, if he isn't careful - but Dean won't, because he can't.

 

(They work quickly, and quietly - can't wake the next patient up, that wouldn't be good, oh no - so they work quickly, and quietly, and nobody's ever the wiser. Meg's skin is like ice. His own is feverish.)

 

Dean won't, because he can't - and then the woodland is gone, falling away - and Castiel moves forward, picking up speed - and he's a child again, racing through a forest - and suddenly, suddenly, he freezes.

 

_Enchanter's nightshade_

_This genus of plant is easily noticeable, because of its cool peach flowers. Some of its lower leaves are as much as three inches long. It is native to Eurasia, and the eastern United States._

 

When he steps back, he sees a wall of glass. It's tall, and thick - and he turns, and there's frozen water all around him, blocking him in - and it's a barricade, a mountain, a fortress - and then there are hands on his skin, and they're warm, the only burning points in this dead waste - and he shudders, as voice whispers in his ear, stirring his hair.

 _Mine,_ it is saying. _Mine, and mine, and mine alone._

 

_Its definition, in the language of flowers, is bittersweet._

 

(After it's all over, Meg dresses quickly, hair falling down over her bare shoulders.

"I have to get out of here," Castiel says.

Meg turns. And nods.)

 

.

 

In the end, it's Meg who saves him.

 

**XXVI**

 

_Fact:_

_When sowing seeds, it's vital to use the right sort of compost. Seed compost is low in nutrients. Use specific seed compost, coir compost, sterilised soil or multi-purpose compost combined with vermiculite or horticultural sand._

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"Okay. First up, I'm just going to ask a few basic questions. Getting us going."

"Sure. Sure thing."

"Okay. Okay. Okay. Ah. What's your name?"

"Err, Dean. Winchester."

"And your age?"

"Twenty five."

"Any hobbies?"

"Aside from gardening? Not much."

"Heh. So - Mr Winchester - what inspired you to take up gardening?"

"I don't know. I've always done it. My old man was a gardener, and I sort of...picked it up from him."

Benny nods, and smiles. "Was he your main inspiration, then?"

Dean opens his mouth - prepares to agree.

"No."

Benny looks faintly surprised; on his pad, his hand pauses, for a second. He draws a line through something. Dean feels faintly smug. "I knew...I met this guy, a while back. He was a great gardener. Better than I'll ever be."

"Oh?"

"He...he was..." Dean swallows; takes a swig of his tea, even though he doesn't need to. It burns his throat. Coffee's always been better. "He was the best man - the best friend - I could ever have hoped for. And I thank God for him every day."

On the final two words, Dean's voice breaks.

"What's his name?" Benny asks.

"Castiel. His name...was Castiel. He...he did a good thing for me, when...when...I'd lost my way. He brought me back. I'll always be grateful to him. Always."

Benny's stopped writing, now. He's just watching Dean's face, eyes open wide. "He sounds like some guy."

"He was," Dean says. "He died." 

"I'm sorry," Benny says, but Dean shrugs. 

"No problem. But I do - I mean - he was - important. I don't know how to describe it. But he was this - this _person_. You felt when he walked into the room. He wasn't charismatic, but he was charming. Didn't know it, but he was. Sucked people in. He never figured out why folks liked him so much." 

"Was he your - closest friend?" 

"Yes," Dean says, "without a - yeah. Yeah, he was. And I miss him, 'cause I - I'm missing what we could have had. The hope of it." 

"I'm sorry," Benny says again, and this time, he looks it. 

"Thanks." 

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

Dean runs for the station. Cas said he was going in the morning - and he's not in his room, and God, he must have been right there, packing, and he didn't see Dean - or Dean didn't wake up - or - God, it could've been anything, but he was right there, and Dean didn't speak, and Dean's hands curl into fists. And he wants to lash out, find a wall and kick it, but he's going to vomit, and he can't stop. 

The station could be anywhere, so Dean just goes downhill. There's a shop: it's small, and there's a wheelbarrow in front of it, and a pile of newspapers. The air's crisp and clear. For a second, Dean is hit with the scent of sweetness - and there's something on the edge of his vision, of laughter and his hands around Sam and cornfields flashing by and chocolate wrappers in the back seat. 

And then it's gone, and Dean's skidding to a halt, stumbling. There's a woman. She looks to be around twenty, and she's pushing a pram. Dean lurches to one side. The woman continues to read her paper. Dean comes to a stop. A man walks past him, a parcel underneath his arm. There's a clock up above his head. It's hanging ds are unmoving. 

"Please," Dean says, "come on, come on. Come on!" 

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

Benny pauses on the doorstep. "Thank you for your time, Dean. I'll have a few more questions for you, once the garden opens. If you need me, just call. You...you've got a great garden."

"Thanks," Dean says, "but it ain't mine."

Benny smiles, and leaves. His car rumbles off, down the lane; it's small, and blue, and sounds like it's in need of a new engine. If he ever comes back, Dean'll fix it up for him. If.

"That went well," Gabriel comments.

Dean can't help but agree.

It's a big if.

 

.

 

There is a mobile telephone number, scrawled on the inside of his wrist, in black marker pen.

In the bath that night, soaking in water, Dean stares at it - nudges the soap suds away, keeps the digits intact.

The wisteria flutters, and shuffles. Dean leans his head against the rim, and stares at the ceiling. The water is warm. His hands are red. Dean's skin is shrivelling up; it's sucking in on itself. 

Dean runs his fingers along the pen. "Mobile number," he says. "Expensive." 

 

**XXVII**

 

_June 22, 1910_

 

It's in his sister's laboured breathing, in the room next door - in her slight coughs, as she twitches beneath the blankets. It's in the bare planks beneath his feet, creaking and groaning with age, as he descends the stairs. It's in the muted voices, as he passes the library door. Through it, he can make out shapes. In a fleeting glance, he identifies his parents. Father has his arms around mother. She's still crying.

Castiel Novak follows the bee, and it leads him into the road, and down the path, and past the roses, and to the garden - and the gravel stabs at the soles of his feet, as the trees loom overhead. Castiel doesn't look up - just puts one foot in front of the other. The less-trod path. Less-trod.

Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. He's going to lose her, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Incurable. Incurable. Incurable.

 

 

He's in the garden, the paths as familiar to him as his own face - he trails his fingertips over the thorns. Blood blooms on his fingertips, rolling down his arm, coating his skin - and he cranes his head to the sky, and sees only darkness, and barbs, and ravens, circling ever nearer.

Castiel follows the forest path...the less-trod path - and that must be a good thing, surely. In mother's stories, those who follow the less-grid path are always rewarded - and now, today, Castiel needs a reward. He needs help - but the forest has nothing to give but darkness, and raindrops, dripping from the tips of leaves, onto dirt and half-starved plants he can't name.

Incurable. Incurable. Incurable. (Of course he knows what it means - who wouldn't?)

They peer up from the dirt, craning their necks towards him - judging him, and he doesn't want to see them, wants to run. He wants to run, more than anything - just run and run, into the distance, and never come back. But he keeps his steps measured, even though he speeds up slightly - ever so slightly. It wouldn't be good to be seen doing that; most ungentlemanly, most unseemly.

So, he continues to walk, ever so slightly faster than before - and wipes his hand across his eyes, and prays for a miracle. Judging him. A miracle. A miracle.

"Help me," he says; he screams it out until his voice is gone, and he's saying, "Please, please, please, someone, _please_." 

 

.

 

_August 17, 1979_

 

Castiel is kneeling on the porch steps, and they aren't in the war, and he's here, and Gabriel's in front of him, and he's safe. Safe. All that jazz. Yeah, baby.

Gabriel smiles, softly - and for a blissful second, the uniform is gone, and he's just a man: a man, wearing a cotton shirt, and brown slacks, and calling out: "It wasn't always like this, Cassy."

In Castiel's mind, he's never been more beautiful. On the ground, they hold one another; and Castiel breathes in the scent of honey - and, for the first time in a long time, he is perfectly happy, even as his eyes water, and his legs shake.

 

.

 

That night, Castiel dreams.

He dreams of a young boy - maybe twelve, maybe thirteen - running through a forest in his pyjamas, his sister's diagnosis ringing in his ears. He dreams of air, being sucked from his lungs; he dreams of stumbling, of crouching, on the ground, with ringing in his head, and buzzing in his brain, and flowers all around - beautiful flowers, rising up towards the Sun.

He dreams of cold, against his skin; he dreams of numb arms, and red eyes, and wet cheeks. He dreams of falling; falling, as he had never fallen before. He dreams of lying there, in the mud, watching the blooms spiral upwards, blue and black and grey and gold, as leaves sweep over his form; he dreams of arms, scooping him up, lifting his body from the ground. He dreams of green.

He dreams of this, and nothing else, until oblivion claims him.

 

.

 

_Dog rose (rosa canina)_

_Dog roses are native to Europe, northwest Africa, and western Africa. They are deciduous shrubs, ranging from three to as many as fifteen feet in height. They normally boast pale pink flowers, which are capable of brightening up any dull garden._

_Strangely enough, dog roses are said to represent both pleasure and pain._

 

**XXVIII**

 

_Fact:_

_Four to six weeks after they're sown, your seedling should have produced their second set of leaves. This means that it's time for them to be potted. Hold onto one of the lower leaves whilst gently levering the roots upwards. Using a finger or dibber, make a small hole in a pot of compost, and gently lower the plant inside. Do not forget to water!_

 

.

 

_July 31, 1915_

 

The station's crowded; there are too many faces, too many bodies. Dean can't see past them all - and there must be a timetable, or a waiting room, or something. On all sides, there are eyes - skimming right past him, but by now, he's used to that.

There's a parting; a split, in the group, where someone has to pass - and through it, Dean can make out a shock of red hair - and that must be Anna, nobody else has hair that colour round here, and that means that he's there.

That's Cas. The same ugly white shirt and the messed up hair and the same sticky out ears. 

"Cas!" Dean yells, finding his voice. 

Castiel is closing the door. There are men on the train. They're smiling, and laughing. Castiel's hand is on the handle. It's curling up. He's got his head down. He's wearing a white shirt, and brown trousers, and a brown jacket. He's chewing on his lip, and his eyes are a hundred thousand miles away. 

"Wait! Cas!" Dean yells, and Castiel does not hear, because he isn't looking, and he's not there, not in his head. Dean's sweating. His shirt's sticking to his back, and his jacket's tight around his waist. 

So, Dean starts to run. He takes those steps two at a time, and he elbows the wall. Dragging his arm in, Dean curses, but he doesn't drop the petal. He can hear his breath, and the train's hissing, over his words. Dean's heart is punching out of his chest. 

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"You miss him, don't you?"

"No. No, I don't. Guy meant more to me than anything, and I don't miss him."

"But you really miss him. You're not whole without him. Can't eat, can't sleep, can't function. Right old mess of a man."

"You're one to talk. Some kind of a pal you are."

"I'm not here to soothe your pain, if that's what you're saying. I'm no hippie."

"So what are you here for?"

"Don't you get it? I'm here to help."

"Well, you're doing a damn fine job at that."

 

.

 

_March 16, 1979_

 

He's been in an accident, they tell him.

He went through the window, they say - straight through. Lost control of the wheel. Rolled to one side. Hit his head. Fell into a coma. Risk of severe brain damage, because of the fracturing.

 

. 

 

When Dean opens his eyes, the world is white. He's gasping. There is a wire in his hand. He can still hear the train. It rings, inside his ears; inside his head.

He can still hear the train, and he can still see blue eyes, and a warm palm - he can still hear the - pressing against his - he can still hear - own. So he tears at the wire. He sits up. He's breathing. Dean's head swims. 

"Cas," he says. "Where is he?" 

Footsteps, and there's a woman. She's wearing scrubs. Dark hair. Bags beneath her eyes. "Mr Winchester," she's saying, "I need you to stay calm, okay? Stay calm, please." 

"Cas," Dean says, "I need to find him, please, you've gotta help me, I've gotta tell him - "

"Dean," Sam says, "oh God, is he - Dean, Dean, oh God, I love you, I love you so much - " 

"Sam," Dean says, "you've got to tell him, tell him, you've gotta tell me, I've gotta tell him - " 

 

**XXIX**

 

_November 1, 1921_

 

In the end, it is Meg who saves him.

It is dark; Castiel wakes with a start, broken from half-formed memories. He had been braiding Anna's hair, only moments ago - but he couldn't get hold of the strands, because someone was shaking him.

Meg stands there, hair plaited, falling to one side of her face. There are dimples on her cheeks, along with the scars. "Time to go," she says - and Castiel nods, and scrambles out of bed, and clasps her hand.

He can't remember the corridors. Castiel isn't sure whether that's a bad thing, but it is what it is. Meg seems to know her way well enough, as her head whips around, from side to side, fast as light; then again, it would be worrying if she didn't.

"Where are we going?" he asks her. Her face is sealed; set.

"Home." Castiel squeezes her hand. She holds on, and steps just a little quicker.

The wards flicker past. Castiel stares into them; and there are men with battered skulls, with twisted limbs. In one room, a boy is sobbing. A light comes on; Meg hisses, dragging him into a corridor. Together, they remain, pressed up against the wall. A nurse shuffles by - or, at least, the shadow of one - and Meg exhales, slow and deep, and then they're running, hand in hand.

They pass through the entry-way as dawn begins to break. The gravel crunches, beneath their feet - and behind them, the hospital rises, stony-faced. Castiel cranes his neck to look - but Meg tugs him around, pressing a bundle into his hands - and before him, there's a cart, with horses in front. It's such a novelty, that Castiel simply has to blink at it. It's mandatory.

The man driving seems furtive; he keeps glancing around, too. Castiel smiles at him, but he fixes his gaze on a nearby hedgerow. In it, dog roses grow - or they could be something else. It's hard to see in the dim light. It's the right climate for them, though. Temperate.

Castiel climbs onto the back; the horse whickers, and he edges away from it, nervous. Below, Meg clucks at him - reaching up, she stretches onto tip-toes. The kiss to his forehead is gentle. Castiel stares - she backs away, keeping her eyes on him. "Stay safe," she says - and Castiel wants to reply-

"Meg," he begins - but then the driver cracks his knuckles, and the cart begins to roll away - and he can only stare after her, clutching the bundle. In the morning light, she is silhouetted in red.

The hedges are alive with dog roses.

He never sees Meg living again.

 

.

 

_August 19, 1979_

 

When the day of the party dawns, it is a warm one. Cicadas hum on lawns; people bask in the heat, fanning themselves. The ground ripples; plants curl inwards, withering into brows specks, unprepared for the onslaught. It's a beautiful morning.

On this particular morning, Castiel Novak wakes - stretches - kicks the covers off his feet. Blinking blearily, he rubs at his eyes, trying to focus on the room. Light streams through the open curtains; he must have forgotten to close them last night, before he slept. Oddly enough, he can't remember dreaming.

Stooping, Castiel shuffles off the covers - he's still fully dressed, down to the shoes. Wincing, he nurses his aching back. A small flurry of pain surges through it; it tingles down to his toes, as his eyes squeeze shut. Gripping the edge of the bed, he expects to feel metal, or wood, or fabric.

What he finds, however, is paper.

 

 

 

 _My dearest Castiel,_ it says. My dearest. 

_I am overjoyed to hear from you! I have to say that things have been rather gloomy here of late. Father's accounts are taking a turn for the worse. It's nothing that you should trouble yourself with - in fact, it is nothing much at all._

_Your letter, however, has brightened us considerably. You would barely recognise mother; she's much quieter, these days. Correspondence from you makes her smile so widely, that it almost seems she is her old self again._

_I must confess that I have been feeling under the weather. I'm sure that it's nothing to be concerned about; in a few days, I shall be up and about again, as right as rain (do you see the pun?). Father seems to disagree - but it can be nothing compared to your experiences, as I can make them out._

_Do you know that when you're letter arrived, it had black lines through it. Father says it's called censoring. Personally, I think it's a waste of time; but then again, I'm not the war office! Unfortunately, it made your message a little difficult to understand._

_Please return home soon, darling brother. We all miss you deeply, but hope that you are well, and remain in your usual high spirits. I'm certain that this beastly affair cannot drag on for much longer; thank goodness that we, out in the country, shall escape the worst of it all!_

_Yours, affectionately and always,_

_Anna._

_PS - I'm not entirely sure what you meant, in the last part of your news. We're not able to afford kitchen staff, never mind a gardener!_

_PPS - If this is in mind to Dean, then if I lay eyes on him again, I shall tell him. You're not alone. I saw him too._

 

.

 

Charlie picks him up from outside his house. He's waiting on the porch, when she rolls up, music blaring from the car's windows - something loud and jazzy, that Castiel doesn't recognise. Above him, the wisteria stems gently tremble. "I didn't know you owned a car."

Charlie shrugs, leaning across to talk to him. There's a string of beads, around her neck; they cast shadows on her collar bones, over her breasts. Something about the way she's lounging, flicking at her fingernails reminds him of Meg.

"You don't know a lot of things, old man. And it's rented." Castiel shrugs, smiling slightly. Charlie's hair ripples red, as her eyes flow over him - he resists the urge to fidget, as he waits for her opinion. Eventually, Charlie nods, slowly. "You look good."

Tugging at the arm of his shirt, Castiel shuffles his feet. "You think so?" Charlie's grin is bright, when it appears; it lights up her face, making her cheeks glow.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Sliding back across, she gestures to the door, nudging it open with one foot. "Now climb on in, Mr N. We've got a party to crash."

"God help us," Castiel says, and Charlie laughs at him, from the bottom of her lungs. 

"You said it, not me." 

 

.

 

_Orchid (orchidaceae)_

_The orchid family, or orchidaceae, is one of the largest families of plants, along with asteraceae (known commonly as daisies). They are herbaceous monocots, and can be found in every country in the world, with the exception of Antarctica._

_Orchids symbolise luxury, beauty, strength, and womanhood. In Ancient Greece, they were associated with virility._


	8. Chapter 8

**XXX**

 

_Fact:_

_If you have expensive seed, it's important to mix the packet with silver sand (or wallpaper paste), to provide a better distribution of plants and within the pots. This also means that you can clearly see where you have sown._

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"You should call him." Gabriel's voice floats through from the other room, as Dean peers into the fridge. There doesn't seem to be much in there - just a handful of petals, crystallising on the bottom shelf.

"No." Dean slams the door shut. He opens the cupboard, which looks more promising. Removing a packet from it, he peers at the wording on it. The letters jumble.

"You should. He was nice," Gabriel comments. His head appears around the door, closely followed by the rest of him, boots squeaking loudly. Too loudly, for someone who's not real. "Great eyes. And did you see that smile? Really, some girl's gonna go ape."

Dean leans against the surface, holding himself still with force of will alone. He's getting good at that. "Just - shut up. Shut up. Now."

"What? Think you can block out your feelings forever?" Gabriel tramps closer, joining him against the wall. Dean edges away, slightly. Gabriel doesn't appear perturbed. "Want to go hide in your shell, because you can't move on? How - "

"I'm trying. I'm  _trying_." Dean clamps his mouth shut. It should work. It usually does. Shoving the packet onto the counter, he fumbles for a bowl, peering around. "Where _are_ they?" 

"It doesn't look like it! Come on, Dean! He was one guy! A friend, sure - but he was old! You must've known it was coming - and you got your time together, so why does it matter?"

"It matters because - because I missed out, alright? I missed out on being with him, and it hurts! Back off!"

Gabriel comes to a stop in front of him, coat-tails billowing. "Life hurts, kiddo! Get over it!" he says. "Would you like a consolation prize? Is that what you need? Somebody to say everything's fine?" 

"I can't just - just get over it, 'cause - " 

"Because! Because! Explain it! Explain how you felt!" Gabriel unfolds his arms; they flap wildly as he speaks. "I'm _dying_ to hear, seeing as he's always your best friend, and your closest ally, and your - "

"I can't get over it, because he's dead, and I'm in love with him!" Dean says, and turns around, and puts the bowl down on the counter, and the tiles are red and black and brown, and there is mould in the corne of the floor. "Are you friggin' happy? It wasn't right, but I loved him anyway, because he was my best friend in the whole world." 

"Yes," Gabriel says, "you did. But it's the wording that's important. See, there was a man I loved, too." 

"Brotherly love, right?" Dean shakes his head. "'Course it wasn't. 'Cause it's _you_." 

"And I'm flamboyant, so I must be gay." Gabriel sneers. "Stereotyping, Mr Winchester." 

"Well, it's right." Dean crosses his arms. His chest's bubbling. He turns around. Gabriel's watching. "Ain't it?" 

"It is," Gabriel says. "And I loved him with all my heart. But I wasn't in love with him." 

"But you _said_ you were." 

"I _said_ I was gay. I _said_ I loved a man. I _never_ said I was in love with him." Gabriel locks Dean's eyes. "There's a difference between loving and being in love. Anybody can say I love you. But meaning it? That's another story entirely. Get it?" 

 

.

 

_March 16, 1979_

 

The hospital food is lame. Dean's got a bowl on his lap. It sticks to the sheets. It sticks to his pyjamas. The pyjamas are white and blue. Sam Winchester is not worried. (Sam's eyes say otherwise, no matter how he tries to hide it.)

He sits with Dean, throughout the hours; his hair is matted.

"You look awful."

Sam smiles, and says, "Jerk."

Dean smirks. "Bitch."

"Bobby's not gonna let you drive." Sam shakes his head. "Told him you'd be pissed. They didn't take your license. Said it was - err - extraneous circumstances."

"I'll talk him round." Dean puts out his hand. "Sam."

Sam shakes his head. "You're in hospital."

"Sam."

Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

"I don't care. You're in hospital. Hospital. Does that mean anything to you, or - ?"

"I'm sick. I deserve it."

"So," Sam says, clearing his throat. "Jo's still around."

"Hm?" Dean spoons a forkful of mash into his mouth, and swallows. "'S she comin' over?"

"Yeah. Now, actually. If you're not bothered about it."

"Don't have much choice, do I?"

Sam winces.

Dean sighs. He holds the bowl on his lap. "Hey, I'm just kiddin'."

"She missed you," Sam says. "We - we all did. All of us. Back here."

Dean grimaces, as his stomach twists. "Yeah. Yeah, I missed you, too."

Sam's fingers are warm, and solid. Dean squeezes them, tight. They crunch - they're like flower-petals in his grip, folding up easily. Paper thin. 

"You're real, right? You're here."

Sam looks at him. "What do you mean?"

Dean drops the bowl. "Oh," he says, "come on." 

Sam scoops it up, and cradles it in his hands. 

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Cas," Dean says. "You think I loved him." 

"Yes."

"You're wrong." 

"And it aches, doesn't it? Your heart gets torn out. There's nothing left."

"Stop it." Dean runs his hands through his hair, half-turning away - and his brain's tick-tick-ticking, swirling around, jumbling everything up together into a mess. "I don't _love_ him." 

"Your heart gets torn out, and trampled on - and just as you think you're getting the pieces back together, you'll see someone in the street - maybe with the same smile - and you think, this is it. He's come back, and this time, we'll have our happy ending. But life doesn't work out like that. The heroes don't win. And that's the end of it. Sometimes, people die, and they get stuck. No Heaven. No absolution. Nothing. Just waiting, and waiting. That's it."

Gabriel sucks in a breath; he says: "I can make everyone _forget_ , apart from myself. Believe me, I've tried. You don't want to miss Cas? Fine. I can help with that. But I will always miss him. There will be no respite - no end. I'm going to miss him until I turn to dust, and there's nothing I can do to change that - no way I can take away my thoughts."

"You're wrong, you don't know anything, you don't know nothing 'bout us." Dean slams closer, one hand fisted in Gabriel's shirt. "Don't you _talk_ about him. Don't you even _think_ about him." 

"You need him. And it wasn't enough to make him stay. I'm sorry. Death doesn't follow rules. He doesn't play by the book." Gabriel leans back. "If it's any consolation, he loved you, too. Still does."

Dean steps back. He moves away; he spins to the side. "You don't know about him." Dean pauses, in his pacing. "I'll see him again? Someday?"

"Someday." Gabriel stops - hesitates. He rubs at his throat. "He'd have wanted you to be happy."

"I know," Dean says. "That was him." 

"No, you don't, because you're an imbecile of epic proportions." Gabriel bounds to his feet, with remarkable speed, picking himself up off the ground. "Fortunately, I'm here to lend a hand."

"You? What can _you_  do?"

Gabriel rubs at his chin, musing. "Well, for starters, I can tell you which plane ticket to book."

"Plane ticket?" Dean says. "I've never flown. Where are we going?" 

 

.

 

_March 16, 1979_

 

"Well, Mr Winchester," the doctor says, "looks like you're all set. We're going to keep you in for a couple of days, just to check everything's fine - but after that, seems you'll be a-okay. You're a very lucky man." 

"Lucky?" Sam echoes. 

The doctor sighs. "Quite frankly, yes. The brain - it's an extremely complex organ. Very little is known on the subject. Your brother was - well, he was under for a long while. We weren't sure if he was going to come through." 

"Hey," Dean says, "I'm right here." 

"Imagine waking up, and losing the use of all function - cognitive, physical. This can, sometimes, be the case. Your brother appears to be - perfect, really. There will be slight physical tremors, obviously." 

"Still here!" 

Doc puts his hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam gazes up at him. "What will he need?" 

"Well, a urinal in the main living area shouldn't be out of the question. Loud noises could be a trigger. You'll need to spend a lot of time with him, to make sure he's adapting." 

"Anything else?" 

"A bedding area on the floor could be useful, but we will go over this with you." 

"Right. Sorry. I just - I mean, I can't believe it. What were the chances?" 

Dean sets his teeth in a grin. "Ain't that just swell," he grinds out. "Can I talk to my brother a sec?"

The doctor looks surprised - his smile drops. Probably hasn't been spoken back to before. Doesn't look like he sleeps much, either - there are big, black bags beneath his eyes. He must've missed his coffee shot this morning.

"Sure," he mumbles, at last, "whatever you need." 

Dean flashes a grin. "Thanks. Can we...err...?"

"I'll be back in a couple of minutes," the doctor says. He looks like Castiel's dad.

The door shuts. There is a click.

"Alright," Sam says. "What the Hell was that? If this is about your damn pie, you can - "

"You know those stories we used to read about, when we were kids? Dad would come home late, and he'd bring these - these comics with him. There was that one you liked - Avengers."

Sam smiles, slightly. His lip rises at the outer edge. "Avengers."

"Avengers," Dean echoes. "Right."

Sam nods, perking up. "Yeah. You were Captain America, and I was - "

"The Hulk," Dean says.

"The _Incredible_ Hulk."

Dean means to laugh. He _does_.

"I had this - this dream. While I was out, where I was in 1915, Sam. I was in World War One. It was - it was the craziest - and you know - you know the craziest thing about it? It seemed - real. While I was there. It seemed like - I dunno. It could've _happened_."

Sam stares. His mouth opens.

"Cat got your tongue?" Dean says.

"It was just a dream," Sam says. "It don't matter, anymore. You're here. With us." Sam's tongue darts out, wetting his lips. He looks tight.

"Yeah," Dean replies. "Maybe that's what I'm afraid of."

Sam nods. "I - this - I'm sure it's just a - a side effect."

"I met someone," Dean says, and Sam snorts, and he sits back, and he's smiling again.

"Typical. Trust your brain to come up with some hot nurse chick for - "

"He wasn't a she. His name was - was Castiel."

Sam stares. On the wall, there's a picture of a man sitting down, with his head between his legs. Dean can smell bleach.

"What do you mean, he?"

"He, Sammy. A man. Blue eyes, dark hair, penis." Dean coughs. His throat scratches. "He - we - "

"You _what_? You _what_ , Dean?"

Doc coughs. "Sorry," he says, "but I need to talk to you, Dean. There's a lot we're going to have to fill you in on. Is that alright?" 

"Sure," Dean says. "You gonna put me on meds?" 

Doc's face puckers. "Not necessarily," he says. "If you'll hear me out, I can explain." 

Dean sits back. Sam's eyes are on his face. Dean sticks out his tongue. 

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"Yes. You heard me. Plane tickets, handsome. That's what we're doing. That's where we're headed. And you can either come along for the ride, or you can sit out by the wayside while the grown-ups do their talking. Which one's it going to be? Because I need an answer, Dean." 

"Be quiet," Dean says. "You're doing my head in." 

 

.

 

_March 16, 1979_

 

The hospital's not quiet, at night.

Sam's got his head in his hand. He's sitting in a chair, beside the bed. Every so often, he jolts awake, starting upright, and Dean tells him to go to sleep, and he falls back down again. His hair's all along his forehead. He's got a mole above his right eyelid.

One time, Dad took them out driving. Dean sat in the front seat, and Sam was in the back. Spend some more time together, Dad said. See what he did for a living. Sam was playing with toy soldiers. Dean could see him in the rear view mirror. Little army men.

The first time Dean had ever kissed a girl, he'd been in Lawrence. She had black hair. It was curly. She had skin like cocoa cream, and big, flat, brown eyes. She'd moved from up north; Arizona, even, because of her Daddy was in the United States Marines, and he'd been Posted.

She was called Cassie, and she had long legs and glasses and liked talking about politics. Her mom stayed at home, and baked apple pie and cinnamon buns. They'd eaten them out on the porch, looking over town. They'd counted motorcycles, and Dean's palms had sweated.

Dean had held her in the back of her Daddy's car. She'd looked at him, with her pebble eyes. She was wearing red lipstick. She was smiling. She had skin like cocoa cream. She was beautiful. 

"You're the first person who was ever kind to me, here," she'd said.

Dean had put a hand on her leg. She'd watched, and put her hands around the sides of his face. Dean had put his hands on her shoulders, and she'd sighed into his mouth, all happy and content. They were fourteen, and Dean had giggled. She tasted of apple pie and cinnamon buns.

Kissing Castiel has been nothing like kissing Cassie Robinson. Kissing Castiel had been nothing like anything else at all. It's the same kind of quiet, now. The hush. Sticks to your ribs, sticks to your chest, weighs you down.

They had sex ed when they were kids, in their second/third/fourth school. They didn't talk about how to kiss. They said which bits went where, and why you didn't do it when you were too young, and about the consequences. 

And then they said that some people - unfortunate people - were born with their heads in the wrong place. Said that some guys wanted guys, and some girls wanted girls, and that it was alright - that you could get help for it, and that it wouldn't last forever. Often, it was just a stage people went through, and if you started feeling anything like that, you should tell your mommy or your daddy or a doctor. 

Dean didn't tell his daddy about his stage. It passed when he was fifteen. There was a boy in his class called Aaron, and he has eyes like sawdust and skin like butter. He was the vice-president of the school littering association, and every so often he'd go around class with a clipboard, asking people what they thought. 

Dean liked Aaron. They had burgers together. They'd gone to dinner. Aaron ordered curly fries, and Dean laughed, because what kind of a sissy orders those? And then they had kissed on Dean's bed, and it hadn't been like Cassie Robinson, and Dean's stomach had tingled and he'd sweated, and Aaron had put both hands in his hair and told him that this - whatever it was - would last a lifetime. 

Aaron had been gone by the fall. That was Dean's stage done. 

 

.

 

_March 17, 1979_

 

Sam pushes Dean's wheelchair. Apparently, it's hospital procedure - which is a load of bull. The whole point of hospitals is giving these things to people who need them - and Dean can walk just fine by himself.

Sam's leaning against the bathroom sink. He's got a black jacket, zipped up all the way to his chin. There's an orderly outside, in blue scrubs.

"Sammy," Dean says. He tears off a sheet of paper.

Through the door, Sam makes a little noise. The roll slips, slightly. "Mm."

"Come on. Not as though we've never done this before."

The roll falls out of his hands, and slides along the floor. Dean curses. "Listen. Last night - "

"It's okay," Sam says. "You're here. You're back. That's what matters."

Dean nods; he swallows; he picks up a sheet; he shuts the lid.

 

.

 

_March 19, 1979_

 

When they clear him, at long last, Sam drives Dean home. They walk down the corridor together - emphasis on the walking - and Sam looks across at him, and smiles, tight. Dean raises an eyebrow.

"So," Sam says.

"So," Dean replies. 

Sam puts one arm around Dean's shoulders, and Dean holds onto Sam's back. Sam holds the door open for him. 

For a second, Dean is floored. There are cars going past, and a gas station with a red roof, and an antiques shop and trees on the side of the road. The sky is big and blue and full of clouds. 

"I didn't remember it like this." 

Sam's fingers tear at his shirt. "Then how _did_ you remember it?" 

Dean shrugs. "I thought it'd be bigger. Brighter." 

"Welcome back," Sam says, and grins. 

"Are we driving in that thing? Because seriously, that is the pits." 

"You can thank Bobby." 

Sam's car smells of grass, and perfume. Dean sniffs. "You had a girl in here, or what?" 

"Shut up," Sam says. He pulls out into the road, and watches the traffic, jaw set. "You do know he ain't real, right? He ain't - ain't like us."

"I know," Dean says. "I do."

(He does. It doesn't seem true to him, either.)

 

**XXXI**

 

_November 1, 1921_

 

When the man pulls the horses to a halt, Castiel's half-asleep. He jerks awake, head falling off his hand. The ground spins, below him - he gasps, teeth jarring together.

To his side, the man won't meet his eyes.

They are at a crossroads. Fields spread out, on every side. Corn sways within them, the stems rubbing together, whispering in the breeze. Dampness hangs over the air, shroud-like; Castiel's shirt sticks to his shoulders, despite the cold. He clutches his bundle to his chest.

Castiel hops off the cart without being asked, as quickly as his aching limbs will allow. The man drives off, click-clacking away, the horses' tails flickering as they whip away, flies circling their matted forms, retracing steps they have already taken.

There are three roads, leading away from this point.

One is the way he has come. It will take him back to the hospital; if he followed the cart-tracks, leading down it, he'd make his way to a village. After that...onwards, to home. And then...then? Explaining his condition? Facing his family? Looking them in the eye, and saying that he was wrong - that it was all a dream - that his entire world had been a fantasy? Or something like it. Something strange. 

The second path goes outwards. Perhaps it will lead to the country; a rural dwelling, where he could live out his existence in peace, and nature. He could be alone with his thoughts, and his memories, and the dreams he might once have had. He could lie down in a ditch, with the water over his head, and the bombs raining down, and follow so many of his fellow men. He'd be just another number: a nameless casualty, in No Man's Land. Nobody would have to know. 

His third choice contains a bird. It looks like a raven, and hops, one-legged, in the centre; pecking around for worms, or flies. It has a hooked beak, and dark, clawed feet. Castiel can't stop staring at it.

This third road may lead somewhere he has never seen before; Germany, or Canada, or Australia. He's heard stories, of all of these places; there were whispers, among the trenches, of the green, green grasses of home. The grass is always greener on the other side, they say. It certainly seems to be greener there.

Castiel holds onto his pack, both hands curled tight, and makes his choice - and as he walks, the raven flies from beneath his boots, cawing loudly all the while. Castiel cranes his neck to the ashen sky, and smiles. His lips stretch out. He laughs. The sound echoes. He cups his hands around his mouth, and calls it out. The raven doesn't yell back; it isn't surprising, exactly. 

 

.

 

_August 19, 1979_

 

Charlie, as it turns out, likes to drive fast. She soars along the highway, accelerator pressed down. Birds flit out of the trees as they pass, screaming raucously. Castiel can't see the flowers on the roadside to name them.

"Slow down?" Charlie yells, "Are you kidding? I hired this thing! I'm gonna use it!"

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, and waits for the end to come, and thinks, poppy. Tulip. Nasturtium. Daffodil. Wisteria. Cherry blossom. Apple blossom. Dog rose -

"Gabriel," he says, and receives no reply.

 

.

 

The house is just the same as all the others in town: short, squat and kitsch. It hasn't got the grandeur of Castiel's own property - then again, not much does. 

Charlie comes to a halt, and slides smoothly out, as though she's been hopping in and out of sports cars all her life. Perhaps she has.

Castiel, for his part, clings to the side, and does his level best not to vomit.

 

.

 

_November 1, 1921_

 

_My dearest Anna,_

_I do not know when, or in what state, this letter will find you. I pray that it does; for if it does not, then I have missed my chance to tell you that I am not dead. I am alive, and as happy as I can be - and that is how I want you to remember me, my darling sister. No tears, no regret; think of me as I once was, before this war came, and changed us all._

_They tell me that the fighting is over, now - that it has been over for a very long time. Personally, I find this hard to believe. Surely someone would have come for me, if that was the case? But nobody did - and, as such, I will stand by my resolution._

_I am writing this at the docks, before the boat sails. I am not sure how I will find a ticket - but I have my wits, and my clothes, and they will suffice. I shall have to find a post box for this, once I am in America. America! The Land of the Free! I think I shall become a gardener; I will work until I can afford a property, where I can settle down. Perhaps, one day, I shall find someone to share it with. Who knows?_

_Give my love to Mother and Father. Tell them that I'm sorry I will not see them again, and not to search for me. Please understand that this is what I want. This is what must be._

_God bless and keep you._

_C_

 

 

Castiel stands; smooths out the paper. The old clothes rub, against his skin. Nothing fits well; the shirt is too large, the shoes too small. He leaves the tie undone, around his neck. The coat is a blessing, though. It's tattered, but it's warm - and really, that's what counts.

Castiel slips the letter into the pocket of his trenchcoat, stands up from the wall, and walks away. The ground is hard, beneath his feet; he takes long steps, soaking in the air. There are people - all around, and too close - talking in rapid-fire French. Two women laugh shrilly, coats wafting - he steps to avoid them. A puddle splashes up, around his legs. Somehow, it isn't too bad. Somehow, things, from now on, are going to be alright.

Somehow, Castiel will live on - and maybe one day, he'll look back, and laugh. In his coat pocket, his hand brushes something. Forehead furrowing, he lifts it; bares it to the sunlight.

The book is old, now; old, and battered. There is a mud-stain, on the very front; it masks part of the title. Castiel scrapes it away with his fingertip, as a horse is led by, clip-clopping on the cobbles. He can smell salt; he can smell dirt. It is: 

 

_The Britis[] Boy's Gu[ ]e to Basic Bo[   ]y_

_From Around Th[             ]_

 

"Meg," he says, "thank you." Somewhere, he is certain, she will hear. _La vie._

On the first page, pressed inside, there is a picture of a man.

He is broad-shouldered, and thick-skinned; there is a line of freckles, near the hollow of his cheek.  _Why shouldn't we make a difference?_ he is saying. 

 

**XXXII**

 

_Fact:_

_When a plant reaches the height of ten metres, it is classified not as a shrub, but as a tree. Large trees can reach to over the eighteen metres in height._

 

.

 

_March 17, 1979_

 

Nobody believes him. He wouldn't, either. (Castiel Novak is dead. Castiel Novak is a hallucination. Castiel Novak does not exist.)

They make excuses; say that he's tired, addled, delusional. (Castiel Novak is dead. Castiel Novak is a hallucination. Castiel Novak does not exist.)

"It's crazy, Sammy." (Castiel Novak is dead. Castiel Novak is a hallucination. Castiel Novak does not exist.)

He ain't crazy. He ain't. (Castiel Novak is dead. Castiel Novak is a hallucination. Castiel Novak does not exist.) He -

 

.

 

_April 22, 1980_

 

"No. There is no way - no way - I am flying. No."

Gabriel cocks his head to one side. "Scared, are we?"

"I want to stay alive, yeah! Planes crash all the time!"

"Not as often as cars. Besides, you said you were - and I quote - 'incomplete'. This will help. Trust me."

Dean raises an eyebrow, heart thundering at a ridiculous rate. "Oh, really. That's believable. Going down in a ball of flame is definitely gonna help."

Gabriel smirks. It's beyond annoying - in fact, it's so far past annoying, it can't even see it anymore. "What if there was someone who knew Castiel? Better than you, better than me - better than anyone? What if there was a person who - most likely - thinks he died in 1916? What if there's a person who needs this?"

Dean's hands curl into fists. "Who?"

Gabriel grins, and says, "Read the letter. November 1, 1921. It's for his sister." 

 

**XXXIII**

 

_August 19, 1979_

 

Inside, the party doesn't appear to have started, yet. There are streamers, hanging from the walls; balloons are strung from every surface, pinks and yellows and reds and blues. Somebody's already pulled a party popper, or two. Their contents are spread out over the floor of the entryway, forming a path into the kitchen. Castiel looks at Charlie. She meets his eye, and shrugs, over-exaggeratedly. He smiles.

"Hey," Charlie shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth, "anybody home?"

In a doorway, there's a flurry of movement - and in a burst of blonde curls, a girl flies through, wrapping her arms around Charlie's neck. Charlie, eyes wide, stumbles backwards - raising one hand, she pats the other girl's back, awkwardly.

"Err, ah, hi, Jo. How, um..." Behind the pair, a man emerges from the kitchen, wiping sticky hands on his jeans. He looks young; his hair flops down, over his ears. Vaguely, Castiel recognises him. He can't pin-point from where.

"Hey, you two? If you're done, can I step in?" The words are spoken good-naturedly; Jo retreats. She's blushing. Charlie's face has transformed into a tomato, as she hugs the man, with slightly less pained enthusiasm.

"How is he?"

The man's face clouds, for a moment. "Better, thanks. Still...you know. He gets around, it's just..."

"Yeah. Yeah."

Castiel considers coughing. Then again, that might break up the moment. Fortunately, Charlie's brain seems to be slowly sliding back into gear, after her run-in with destiny.

"Err, guys - guys, this is Cas. Cas, Sam and Jo."

Sam only falters for an instant. "Nice to meet you, sir," he says, holding out his hand. He has very white, very straight teeth.

"Nice to meet you, too." Jo waves at him, smiling politely. Her colour has gone down, somewhat.

Sam moves away. "Can I get any of you drinks? You're the first in, so we're not quite ready. I've still got the peppers to do, and, you know, they won't make themselves!" 

"You could come around the back, Charlie," Jo says, "I mean, I've got a few things that need working on. Off my chest. So."

Charlie looks to Jo. Jo looks to Charlie.

"I think," Castiel says, "I might take a little look around. If that's acceptable?"

Sam's relief is palpable. "Yeah! Err, do you want - " 

"There's no need. I'll...um...amuse myself, until your preparations are finished." Castiel shoots Charlie a glance; her eyes widen. "Thank you for allowing me to do so."

"Sure," Sam says, "ah - do you wanna go upstairs? My brother's up there, but he'll be alright. Just knock before you go in, and...err..." Sam leans forward, on his toes. "This is gonna sound stupid, but could you try not to talk about wars? I know it's not a hot conversation topic, but...he...was in an accident. It...he...he's great, but..." Sam seems to lose his voice.

"I understand," Castiel says, quietly. "I won't."

Sam nods; straightens, chin rising. "Alright."

Behind him, Jo's shoulders slump.

Castiel nods. "Thank you," he repeats, and walks towards the stairs.

There is sunlight, filtering through the hall window; it casts shadows, beneath his feet, spreading up the side of the wall.

"Third door on the left," Sam calls after him. Castiel pauses, beginning to mount. On the ground floor, Jo is taking Charlie's hand. She brings them up between their bodies, pressed in the middle.

 

.

 

It doesn't take him long to find the third door. The carpet is soft, beneath his feet; uncertain, he pulls off his shoes, abandoning them outside the door. He looks at the ground.

"So, this is goodbye, then."

Gabriel smiles. His teeth are stained with ash. "Looks that way."

Castiel shunts his shoes to one side, and stands stiff and straight, just the way he was taught to. Strong. Proud. A soldier. Not that it worked. He was terrified - same as everybody else. They were all frightened. You couldn't not be - not when the man beside you was dead, not when you couldn't feel your hands, not when your stomach was empty and you were sweating, and all you could think was _run_. Not then. Not ever.

"There never was a man waving me off from the train, was there?"

Castiel fixes his eyes on Gabriel's fave. The other man stares back, unblinking. His cap falls down, over his brow. It's tilted, slightly. The girls like that, Balthazar told him once, in the dug out. They like the risqué posture; all that adventurer jazz. It's in the way you walk - if you walk the walk, and talk the talk, you can get anyone. Castiel could barely make out the words, through his chattering teeth.

The soldier's eyes are sad. "That depends on what you mean. _I_ couldn't see him. He - " 

Castiel nods; swallows. "It wasn't real. None of it. I...I made it up. I invented him."

Gabriel smiles, slightly; the skin on his forehead crinkles. "If that's what you want to believe."

"You said that before."

Gabriel takes a step forwards; place his hands on Castiel's shoulders. Looks right at him. "Sometimes, all we've gotta do is take the plunge, Cassy. Then, maybe, we'll find what we've been looking for has been here the whole time."

Castiel laughs. It sounds like he's choking. "That's a little pretentious, don't you think? In here?"

Castiel touches his chest. A hand moves downwards. Fingers lace, over his own. He can feel them - hard, against his whitening knuckles.

"No," Gabriel says, eyes gleaming, "here."mAnd Gabriel doffs his cap, and steps aside, revealing the door.

Castiel rolls his eyes. "I could see it before, you know. It wasn't difficult." 

Gabriel chuckles, calm as ever. "Yes, but this is so much more dramatic. Don't you think?" 

Castiel raises his fist; glances to his right. He is alone. Against the wall, there is a smear of water; a drip, rolling downwards, pooling around his feet. There might have been snow there, for all he knows. Castiel smiles. He knocks.

 

**XXXIV**

 

_Fact:_

_Most garden plants will thrive in neutral soil (pH 7); however, rhododendrons and heathers prefer a more acidic soil, and peonies and irises can grow in one which is alkaline._

 

.

 

_April 23, 1980_

 

Apparently, being a ghost doesn't give you superpowers - just the ability to screw up people's brains, which, in Dean's view, is pretty messed up. You can't fly, or walk through walls, or shoot lasers from your eyes. What you can do, however, is travel - and find people. And sneak on the back of aircraft.

"This is a bad idea. This is a really bad idea."

Behind the wardrobe, Gabriel titles manically. He sounds like a steroid-pumped lemming, possibly about to fling itself from a high cliff.

"Just because you've never tried it..." 

"I didn't have opportunity! In case you didn't notice, I spent six years making sure Cas didn't kill himself! I was a bit preoccupied!"

Gabriel stares at him, chuckles dying away. "So, why didn't you just...go? Leave?" 

"Go where? 1910, Gabriel. I wasn't even alive, never mind Sammy!" Dean stuffs his shirt into his bag, and zips it up. "I...I thought about it. A lot. Sam, and home, and - ""

"You couldn't leave Cas. Could you?"

"That'll do."

"It'll have to," Gabriel says. "Quit complaining, or I'll make you believe your brother's a goose. Besides, you need to look your best, if we're about to plummet to the bottom of the ocean. The mermaids'll be seeing you." 

"Not helpful!"

 

.

 

Charlie picks up on the sixth ring. "Bradbury residence," she yawns. 

"Hi. It's me. I'm using a different line." 

"Dean? Hey! Err, morning, Winchester." 

"I'm going to England."

There is a silence. "What?"

"England. I'm going, and Sam's gonna flip, so you've gotta cover for me. I need you to check with Ben - Mr Lafitte about the article."

"Err...you do know we still need those signatures, right? This park isn't going to pop into existence, even if he - " 

"Make sure he finishes it. Do whatever you have to. Got it?" Dean makes a right hand turn, gliding smoothly onto the motorway. He sighs, despite himself. "Missed you, baby."

"Hold it. Dean, are you driving?"

Dean pulls a face. "No...?"

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Dean you had your license confiscated. Bobby'll kill you! You're gonna get arrested. Oh my God, come on, Dean, Bobby even bought you that darn stupid car-phone thing, it was so expensive, he'll murder you, he even got it _replaced_ when you - " 

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Get the article out. I'll see you soon, Charlie - and thank you. I swear, I'll do anything you want. Anything."

"Dean Winchester, don't you hang up on me, don't you dare - "

Shoving the phone back into its holder, Dean flexes his fingers, releasing the crick in his neck - because no matter what people say, those things are heavy. He should never have let Sammy install it - car phones just ain't worth the trouble. He'll have to take it out, sometime.

"Time to roll," Dean breathes, and puts his foot down. Hard. The Impala roars.

"Melodramatic," Gabriel comments, leaning forward over the seat gap. "Easy, tiger." 

 

 .

 

They arrive at the airport, with precisely fifteen minutes and twenty seconds before their flight. (Dean isn't counting. He isn't.) This, technically, should be enough time for them to get through customs.

The metal detector, however, has over ideas.

 

**XXXV**

 

_Daffodil_

_Daffodils belong to the genus narcissus. They are mainly native to the Meditteranean, and come in every size from five inches to two feet, and often flower in spring - among the very first of the spring buds. Daffodils thrive in slightly acidic soil._

_They have come to be identified with friendship, regard, chivalry, and rebirth._

 

.

 

_August 19, 1979_

 

At one side of the room, sprawled out on the bed, is a man. He is tall; broad-cheated, broad-shouldered. Tanned skin. Blue shirt, denim jeans, white socks. Legs stretched out in front of him; headphones lying on the bed, as though he'd just pulled them out. He's rolling to his feet, over his side, and he's saying: "Sammy, I thought I told y - oh."

He stops, mouth slightly open. The man's lips are faintly chapped; there are white flecks, surrounding them. Shadows rise and fall, over his features - dotting his hairline, his cheekbones, his jaw. They flicker, as they shift; a kaleidoscope, spilling over edges of pages of books, forming something impossible. Castiel stares. On the window ledge behind him, there sits a single bud, in a glass vase. Its petals have not unfurled.

 

_Forget-me-not. Memory._

 

"Err...hi?" the man says - and his voice is low, deep, tremulous. It rises up from his chest, despite his youth; dripping out over his teeth, rolling from his lungs.

The man's eyes narrow; he stands, raising himself to his full height. Castiel clutches the hem of his shirt, tight. He can feel his heartbeat.

"Look, if Sam sent you up here to get me, I'll be..." 

 

_Pistil - stigma, style, ovary. Stamen - anther, filament. Ovules. Carpel._

 

And he's here - freckles falling across the bridge of his nose, mouth warm, skin hot - and there is blood, racing through his veins, raging and soaring - and he's alive, he's alive, he's real - and he looks just the same. He hasn't changed a bit. His eyes are very, very green. And he isn't smiling.

"Dean," Castiel says - and it comes out as a breath, and his head's spinning, and there isn't enough air, because it isn't possible - it isn't - it isn't. The man can't be a day over twenty five - less than that, even.

"Do I know you?" he asks.

 

**XXXVI**

 

_Fact:_

_Each month of the year, in 'garden seasons', has a different name. They are split up into the seasons, with three components within those brackets: early, mid, and late. The cycle begins in March (early spring), and ends in February (late winter). It is important to recognise this, in the planting world, and to use the terminology correctly._

 

.

 

_April 23, 1980_

 

_Fear of flying is an actual medical condition._

Dean does not know this.

_It is called aviophobia or aviatophobia._

Dean does not know this, either.

 

Dean runs for the plane. Runs.

His breath catches, in his chest. He dodges a woman with her kid, and the kid is wearing dungarees and a sun hat, and the woman's smearing sun cream onto his face, and the kid's twisting away, and Dean almost slams right into the luggage trolley, and one of the porters shouts something, and he doesn't apologise.

The air-strip isn't all that long. The plane hasn't taken off. It's small - neat. White wings, red stripes. Dean makes his way along the runway. There's a scrubby patch of brush next to it. The stairs are down. Dean holds onto the rail. 

"Ticket, please," he is told, and he fumbles for it. Behind him, a man tuts. Dean sees him glance towards his watch. 

"Welcome to the flight, sir," the attendant says. "That's all in order. Go left, please. Luggage has to go in the overhead racks, or below your seat. Thank you." 

Dean nods, and smiles. He reaches up, and opens the rack, and shoves his bag into it. It's next to a blue suitcase. There's half a sleeve hanging out of it. 

Collapsing into his seat, he heaves in a breath - and another, and another.

 

_Fear of noise is called acousticophobia. Fear of gold is aurophobia._

 

The woman beside him offers him a handkerchief. He declines.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the attendant says, "good afternoon, and welcome to this Heartland commercial flight from Lawrence to London, departing at 11:06pm."

 

_Fear of insanity is agateophobia._

 

"This was a bad idea," Dean says.

Gabriel watches him, lounging in the aisle, one leg crossed over the other. He's smoking. The smoke cloud pools around his face.

"You're not afraid of flying," he says. There are biscuit crumbs, in the cracks between his seat and the next.

 

 

_The engine is roaring._

_The light is white._

 

 

Dean's got an aching neck, and an aching back, and an aching skull. The woman hasn't stopped talking about her darling son - and his beautiful girlfriend - for the past five minutes.

"You remind me of him, dear. And how about you? Do you have a girl back home?" 

"No," Dean says. "Not me." 

It seems like the safest bet. The plane begins to shake. It begins to scream.

It is as though the ground is trembling. It is as though he is in an earthquake. It is as though he is in the back of a spinning car. It is as though the ground is trembling.

Dean Winchester is afraid of flying. He has his eyes closed, he has his hands on the arm rests, he has his lips pressed together. His palms are sweating.

 

**XXXVII**

 

_August 19, 1979_

 

"Dean, it's me."

For a moment, there's a flicker - a shadow, passing across that face - and Castiel can believe, truly hope, that this is real. That it isn't all in his head, this time - that the man he knew, the man he fell for, was true - that he wasn't just a joke, a game, something invented. Something to help. Something formed by a child, on a cold, dark night, as his sister lay dying.

And then Dean's face seals, and it's over. There is silence - and Castiel can't look away, even though he knows that any moment now, Dean will go - simply disappear, as he always has - fading away, among the swaying stems.  _Who says we shouldn't make a difference?_ he is saying. 

 

**XXXVIII**

 

_Fact:_

_There are four main vegetable groups: potatoes, legumes, brassicas, and roots and onions. Vegetable groups should be rotated around the plot each season, on a three or four year rotation, in order to improve soil structure and reduce the chance of disease._

 

.

 

_April 23, 1980_

 

It is 23:18, and Dean Winchester is having a panic attack.

His fingers tingle. He didn't know that he'd last this long. There's a tightness in his chest. The air stewardesses have finished pointing out the door seats. They're buckling up.

Gabriel's hand is on his back, and Gabriel's crouching in front of him, squashed against the seat compartment. Gabriel's hands are on his shoulders, and they're watching one another. Wary. The world is hot.

"You're breathing too fast," Gabriel says. "Calm yourself."

Dean's floating.

"You're not afraid of flying," Gabriel says. "You're afraid of falling down."

"Sweetie?" the woman says. "You okay? I've got cough mints if you need 'em. Always make me feel good."

Dean chokes. He can't get words out. Dean's floating. He's spinning. He's terrified. He has lost control, and he is terrified.

"Shit," he says. "Shit, shit, shit."

The world is tilting. The ground shakes. His hands scrabble at the seatbelt, and it won't come undone, and the ground's moving. He's spinning. He is breathing too quickly. His mouth is dry.

"You're scared," Gabriel says. "That's okay. It's okay to be afraid, Dean."

Dean's breath shudders. He's floating. He's cold. He's shivering. His teeth chatter. It's white. He spits. Gags. His tongue. Lips. Teeth. Buzz. Spin. Shake.

"Hold onto the seat," Gabriel says. He's leaning into him, in the aisle, right across the woman's breasts. She's wearing purple. "Breathe in. Breathe out."

Dean would laugh, if he wasn't shaking.

"You were in a car crash," Gabriel says. "You lost control. You can't control this. You're not driving. You're in the passenger seat. You don't have someone you can trust. Breathe in. Now."

Dean breathes in. The world is hot. His teeth are gritted. His ears pop.

"Breathe out, Dean." Gabriel's voice is not Sam's. It is hard. It is not soft. It is not gentle. He does not care if Dean snaps, or breaks. He would not mind. "Dean. Breathe out."

Dean breathes out. His knuckles are white. They're pale. White. Pale. Crunch. Crisp. Crackle.

"It's alright," Gabriel tells him, "because even if you can't trust me, I can still show you what to do. Believe me. Believe this. I promise you, you are going to be fine."

There is a ringing in Dean's ears. Gabriel's hands are on his shoulders, and he's twisted up in his seat.

The woman is sucking on a cough sweet. Her teeth smack together. Gags. Lips. Teeth. Buzz. Spin. Shake. Breathe in. Dean feels nauseous, so he closes his eyes, and then he's tired, and Gabriel's rubbing his back, and he slips off before he knows it.

 

.

 

That night, Dean Winchester dreams.

He is driving down a row of houses. They have white picket fences, and green doors with the paint peeling off them. Nobody seems to be around. 

Dean stops randomly; he steps outside, and it's raining. His hair's stuck to his forehead, and he shakes it away, brushes it back. His hand scrapes over his scalp, and it hurts. 

The first house is empty. It has yellow sofa cushions, and floral curtains. They have daffodils on them - and Dean can't remember what they stand for, but he toys with them anyway, and looks out. 

Around the back, there's a garden. It's green, and leafy - not neat or tidy or oedered, or anything like that. It's nice. There are a couple of sun loungers set out, and a table with a mud of orange squash on it, and a couple of Aztec bars. Dean picks one up, unwraps it, and takes a bite. 

 _You know,_ Castiel says, _if you litter, I may just eat them all myself._

Dean smiles at him. _Hey, Cas,_ he says. 

Castiel rubs the creases out of his jacket. He's sitting in a deck chair, one leg folded over the other; there's a book at his elbow, with green leaves on the cover. Behind him, narcissus is growing in pots, waving softly. _Hello, Dean,_ he says. _It's good to see you again._

 _Yeah,_ Dean says, _yeah. You too._

Castiel shakes his head. _What did I say about littering?_

Dean pockets the bar, and shrugs. _Not my fault._

_How so? You performed the action._

_You could just say did the deed. Nobody's judging._

Castiel rolls his eyes. _It's unbecoming. And besides, you're supposed to be a gentlemen. You_ were _my role model._

 _And look how you turned out._ Dean sighs. _God, I miss you, buddy._

Castiel stares at him, gaze perfectly level and blue. _I miss you too._

Dean tries for a smile. He slaps Castiel's shoulder. _Nah. You're not sad. You're up in Heaven. Or whatever. Playing with the cherubs._

Castiel turns away. The wind blows across his hair, tousling it. His jaw's a straight line. _It's not over yet,_ he says. 

 _So you ain't mowing your lawn up high?_ Dean whistles. _Thought Gabriel'd be giving you a hand. Seeing as you too were such good buddies - which you forgot to mention, apparently._

Castiel sits on the edge of one lounger. Dean takes the other. They face each other, knees very nearly touching. Dean rubs his hands down his pants. 

 _I have a duty to you, Dean,_ Castiel says. _When I was with you, I did not. I didn't feel - obligated. Gabriel was my friend. I left him behind. I did not wish to speak of it. I wanted to -_

 _Forget?_ Dean's cutting across him, sure, but his chest is singing, and his fists are balled up by his sides. _That worked. I ain't forgetting, and neither are you. So._

 _I owe you,_ Dean. Castiel looks down. _For my happiness. And I will return it with yours. But that - you will not be happy while I am with you. Gabriel can help, if you let him._

_What does he know about us?_

_He had a lover,_ Cas says, and he holds out his other hand. Dean looks at it. Their legs are almost brushing still. Dean wants to close the gap between them. It feels as though it is a chasm. _A man._

Dean places his hand on Castiel's knee. He runs his fingers down it, because that seems like the thing to be doing. 

 _I couldn't stay,_ Castiel says. _I wasn't wise enough to look after you. Gabriel is. Trust him._

Dean cranes his neck up. Castiel can't be over twenty. He's handsome, in a detached kind of way - but he looks good, real good, the kind of good that makes Dean want to tilt his chin higher and do all the things he wants to. 

 _I only wanted you,_ Castiel whispers. _I did. Don't deny it. Don't pretend._

They kiss. Castiel takes Dean's face in his hands. Their lips brush. Castiel's touch is like smoke. Dean fists his hands in his jacket. 

_I needed you, Cas. You left. I couldn't - I didn't - I didn't mean to go. If I could've stayed, I would. But I - Sam. He was - top priority._

Castiel chuckles soundlessly. Dean swallows. He can still feel the press of Castiel's lips. His fingers stray to his mouth, but Castiel's are faster, tracing along its seam. 

 _I have something to give you._ Castiel's hand goes to the pocket of his trousers. Dean stares, half-expecting a gun to come out. Quiet as ever, Castiel hands it to him. _I think I need to return it._

The petal is from a red tulip. Dean's hand closes around it. Castiel watches, nodding gently. 

 _Long overdue,_ Castiel says. 

 

. 

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

When he wakes, the woman is snoring.

Dean has breakfast, which is a sausage that does not look like a sausage, and eggs that do not look like eggs. They're too pale. 

"You look happy," the flight attendant tells him, and then blushes, looking down at her brogues. 

"Good morning, sunshine," Gabriel chirrups, and flicks the side of his head. 

"Thanks," Dean says, and waits until she's gone before scowling.

Gabriel holds up his hands. "Had me worried for a second there," he says. 

Dean shrugs, and pops a bite of sausage into his mouth. 

 

.

 

Dean steps off the plane, stretching out his legs, hearing them pop. Gabriel falls easily into step, alongside him; they walk almost in sync, shoulders aligned.

"So," Dean says quietly, as the baggage carousel comes clunking around, "where to now? Where's Anna living?"

Gabriel shrugs; gleams. "Guess."

Behind him, a toddler twitches in its buggy. It's mother bends down, and, cooing, removes the dummy from its mouth.

Dean doesn't even have to consider it. "The house. Still?" 

Gabriel's hair shines, framing his features. He looks like a choir boy. "Top of the class."

"Back to the start," Dean says. The bag comes towards him; he snatches it up, and swings it over his shoulder. A group of tourists shuffle by, cameras clicking away, exchanging shots - and what can be so interesting about an airport, anyway? "Should've known."

"Best get moving, then," Gabriel says.

Dean nods. "You could've planned this better, you know."

"Not my fault you didn't pack enough underwear."

 

**XXXIX**

 

_August 19, 1979_

 

"Dean," Castiel says, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He takes a step, backwards, backwards, away - because he has to get out of here, can't take it, can't - and he almost makes it, too, but there's something in his way, and he bangs against it, knees knocking, and stumbles -

And then, suddenly, there's a hand on his arm. Castiel's head snaps up - and there, right in front of him, is Dean Winchester - just the same as the day he left, just the same as he always has been - and his eyes are narrowed, and there's a stain on his collar, and he's beautiful. He's beautiful. He is.

Dean Winchester is looking at him, green eyes blazing - and Castiel is helpless in his gaze, trapped in a trench, stuck in mud - clambering over the side, burnt-out trees looming on either side - and there are gunshots, exploding in the distance, and in the moonlight, they are stars.

"I'm so sorry," Castiel says. "I didn't intend to intrude. I was admiring your flowers. They're beautiful. I haven't seen forget-me-nots in a long time."

Dean stops. Stares. Opens his mouth. Speaks, and says, "Tell me that's you." 

 

.

 

_Red tulip (tulipa)_

_The tulip is a perennial, bulbous plant, with brightly coloured leaves. They range from three to eight inches in size, and are native to Turkey and Holland, although they have since spread all over the world._ _They normally bloom in the spring, or early summer._

_Red tulips equate to a declaration of love._


	9. Chapter 9

**XL**

 

_Fact:_

_Traditional seed varieties often have more flavour than modern ones, which may be bred for shape or colour._

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

"What are you doing?" Gabriel asks, casual as you please.

Dean grits his teeth. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Well," Gabriel says, "if I didn't know better - which I do - I'd say you were stealing that car."

"Good thing you know better," Dean says. "Now keep an eye out, and keep your trap shut. Got that?"

"And where did you learn to do this, exactly?"

Dean snorts. "The less you have to know, the better."

"Right," Gabriel says. "Right. I'll...go look for a map, shall I?"

"You do that," Dean says, and continues. "And find me a screwdriver."

"Try the toothbrush," Gabriel says.

"CD case," Dean says. "Or tweezers."

"Tweezers?"

"Shut it."

"This is where we're headed." Gabriel taps a point, on the paper, within the mess of grid-limes. Dean's stomach lurches. "If we drive fast, it'll take...what...a couple of hours?"

"Fast driving," Dean says. "I can do that. Pass the tweezers."

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Of course you can," he says. "Jet-lagged. Through the dark. And you're perfectly okay." 

"It wasn't a - a - I'm fine."

"And the sky isn't blue. And you're not ridiculous. And dandelions aren't weeds. But don't worry. Everything's going to come up trumps."

"It'll get light," Dean says. "Look out for cops."

"Oh, yeah. I forget. Police officers. Because what you're doing is - oh, yes, that's right - illegal."

"How'd you think I was gonna get there?"

"I don't know! Borrow a bicycle! Get your legs in gear! Car share!"

Dean rolls his eyes. "If you'd met my old man, you'd know to keep quiet."  

 

.

 

_September 8, 1979_

 

Cas never tells him much about the war. He doesn't talk about it; it's a forbidden subject, a line that Cannot Be Crossed. Sometimes, it gets him angry - that even after all this, Cas won't trust him with the memories. But he keeps quiet - because if he protests, Cas might leave, and he can't deal with that. He can't.

Cas asks endless questions. Literally - they're endless. He wants to know everything. Everything.

So, Dean shows him.

He takes him to the salvage yard, and introduces him to Bobby. Bobby's awkward, and Cas is awkward, and it's awkward all round. Dean can't stop grinning. It's wonderful.

Technically, Sam and Cas have already met. Dean can't resist dragging him over there, anyway. They go round to dinner, and Sam cooks his horrible food, and Cas smiles politely.

Before they start the walk back, Sam wants a word.

"Man...you and Cas...what's going on between you?"

Dean turns away; starts to shrug on his coat. "You know what's going on."

Sam shakes his head. "No, Dean. I really don't. You live together, and you go to the cinema, and whenever you tell people about him, your face lights up. You're not just friends. That's not what friends do."

"I never said we were friends. I said you know what we are."

Sam doesn't have anything to say to that.

"Dean?" Cas is standing in the doorway. He's slightly stooped, now. In the light, every wrinkle is visible; every line on his sagging skin, every blemish. Every second he spent waiting. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," Dean says, "nothing's wrong. Just saying goodbye."

 

.

 

As they leave the house, breath misting in the night air, Castiel tips his chin upwards. "You don't have to stay, you know."

Beneath the street lamp, he veritably glows.

"I know," Dean says. Overhead, he can't quite make out the stars. In the not-quite-shadows, their hands lock.

Castiel's skin is like ice. Dean takes him home. Cas is huffing and puffing, by the time they reach the end. Dean slips his hand around his back, and holds him up; and they go inside. The floor squeaks. It's like one of those films - where you know you're on the tip of something, can hear the music in the background, but you can't tell what it is. Yet.

Dean clicks on the light, and hangs up Castiel's coat. He smiles, infinitely grateful, much too grateful - and Dean smiles back. Castiel makes them tea, pottering around - he insists, it's no trouble at all, and will Dean be an angel and fetch the teabags? It's just that he's having an off day, and -

"I missed you," Dean says. He regrets the words as soon as they're out. They make Castiel stop; look up, in his slippers and dressing gown. He sets down the teaspoon. Dean stares at the floor.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "I am. For this. That we - "'

He doesn't finish. Dean can't tell whether he means for the tea, or the garden, or the biscuits he's grinding up in his hand.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah. Me too." Dean sets the plate aside, and doesn't look at him. Castiel doesn't look, either. Their elbows barely brush. "Why didn't you look for me, Cas?"

"Because I wanted you to be free."

"I wasn't free without you." Dean looks at Castiel's hands, and Castiel looks at him. "My dad died when I was eighteen. Lung cancer. He smelled of cigarette smoke, and concrete, and - and sweat. That probably don't sound so good - unless it was your father, you couldn't...but if they bottled those smells, and put them all together - I'd buy it by the gallon."

"I'm sorry." Castiel's hands twitch. His shirt is buttoned up to the collar. He looks like a penguin. "Is he - ?" 

"Dead? Yeah." Dean nods. "We should buy clematis. They'd look real good your walls." 

"I'll look into it," Castiel promises. 

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

Gabriel hums. 

"What is that?" Dean bites. 

"Pack up your troubles," Gabriel says, "in your old kit-bag. Never heard of it?" 

"Maybe," Dean says. 

"Pity. It was actually quite pleasant. Turn left." 

Dean nods. There's honking, and he yawns, and then he swears, and jerks the wheel. The lorry moves around him by a hair. 

 

.

 

_December 25, 1979_

 

"Merry Christmas," Dean says. He hands the box across with both hands, and Cas takes it in the two of his. He's smiling.

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel says.

"Don't mention it." Dean looks at his hands, and then at the floor. "You gonna open it, or what?"

"Sorry."

Dean glances up. Castiel's fumbling with the paper, hands going to the corners. There's a little chunk missing, in the bottom side - and if he could just see it, he'd have it out real quick. Dean drums his fingers on the side of the couch.

Castiel gets the paper off, and lifts it to the bulb. "Oh."

"Oh? Is that a good _oh_ , or a bad _oh_?" Dean shifts, and says, "I didn't know - I mean, it looked right, but - I didn't know."

"Oh," Castiel repeats. His voice wavers.

"Cas?"

Castiel's arms fold around him. Dean stiffens, but Cas doesn't let go - he keeps on hugging, rigid and strong. Gradually, Dean settles into it. He places his hands on Castiel's back, tugging him in close.

"It's what I wanted," Castiel says. "Thank you, Dean, thank you, Dean, Dean, thank you, Dean, Dean, thank you, Dean - "

"Hey! Hey! Enough!" Dean puts up in his hands. Castiel hobbles back a step, so that he's standing. "Sorry. Just - woah. Really?"

"Yes," Castiel says. He's beaming. It's practically tearing his face in two. "Thank you."

"It's just leaves," Dean says. "I pressed 'em."

"Yes. Of course you did."

Dean blinks. "Are you teasing me?"

"Absolutely not."

"You - you ain't changed a bit. Know that?"

"No," Castiel says. "I have."

"I should've looked for you. Jesus, Cas, I should've - "

"And done what? Even if we'd had a year longer together - two, three - what difference would it have made? I was - and you did not - "

"I'm sorry. I'm real sorry. If I could go back and change things, I would. I swear it. I'd make it all right. I wouldn't let you go out there. Not on your own."

"You couldn't have come with me."

"I could. I'd have followed you anywhere, I swear it."

"You don't have to swear it. I believe you. I do."

"I'm sorry. This is my fault."

"This is not your fault. It is nobody's fault. That would imply that someone is to blame." Castiel sighs. His head tips against the armchair. His neck is all fleshy strands and knobs of bone. "Sometimes, these things - they happen."

"Things like, like time travel? That's everyday, for you? What, did you, you, pop back to World War One for a cup of tea? 'Cause being in, in friggin' 1910, that wasn't ordinary for me!" 

Castiel's eyes twinkle. "That would be gratifying," he says. "I must admit. You truly are a '70s boy. And I am truly a '70s old man."

"I should've come with you," Dean says.

"I lived a full life, Dean. A full, happy life. It wasn't easy. I was hungry. I was cold. I was afraid of redemption, afraid of absolution, afraid of what came after. And do you know that I found?" Dean shakes his head. Castiel looks him in the eye. "It just isn't worth the bother."

There's quiet.mDean doubles up in hysterics. "That's what you found? You had this - this whole thing - and that's what you took?"

Castiel frowns. "I thought it was a reasonable lesson."

"That sucks! You've got eighty years to pick from, and that's it?"

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

By the time they roll up at the house's doors, it's dark. Shadows pool at their bases; Dean can taste his own breath, in his mouth. That's probably not the best.

The car stops. Ivy creeps up the walls, consuming the mortar.

"Well," Gabriel says, as though it isn't immediately apparent, "here we are. Home sweet home, for you."

Dean shakes his head. He doesn't speak. His throat seems to have sealed, somehow; locked itself in place.

"We should get out of the car," Gabriel murmurs, almost to himself. "I think that would be a good plan. A great plan, actually. Don't you think?"

"Shut up," Dean says, flatly. There is a hush. "How did you find out about the - the mind thing, anyways?"

Gabriel shifts in his seat. "That's a story for another time, kiddo. Tell you what. Get inside, and I'll reveal all."

Dean nods. "It looks...the same. I mean...I was here for years. Six years. And I couldn't...I..."

Gabriel's hand is firm, against his skin. "It's a house, Dean. Just a house."

"I know," Dean says. "Sure thing." 

"You're still so in love," Gabriel says, and Dean turns to look at him, edging around. 

Nothing has changed.

The car sputters, chokes, and gives out entirely.

"Hell," Dean says. He slaps the wheel with both hands. 

"Sounds like the bonnet," Gabriel points out. "Told you it was a rust bucket." 

"Yeah, thanks, captain obvious." Shoving open the door, Dean shoots Gabriel a look. "Don't do anything stupid." 

"You can count on me, corporal," Gabriel says. "You won't fix it." 

Dean's feet crush the leaves. They crackle. "Try me," he says. 

 

.

 

Dean doesn't. 

"How did you even get us here?" 

Gabriel looks up at the house. He has his hands in his pockets. There's a thin plume of smoke coming out of his mouth, but no cigarette. "I grew up close by. I'm familiar with it." 

"Let me guess. You haunted your old house?" 

Gabriel has to crack a smile. "You bet. Howling, rattling, the whole she-bang. I hitched a ride over here, and hung around for a good few years. You should've seen the looks on their faces." 

Dean slams the bonnet shut. "It's toast," he says. "Gonna have to get repairs." 

"And admit that it's stolen?" 

 

.

 

"So, what exactly are you going to say, when you get in there?"

Dean rolls on the balls of his feet - and that's a good question. A surprisingly good one, seeing as the amount of sensible comments belonging to Gabriel amounts to precisely zero. "I'll figure something out. Keep quiet, and don't distract me."

Gabriel salutes, hand rising upwards. "Got it, chief. I'll be quiet as a mouse. Or rat. God, I hated the rats."

"Whatever," Dean says, raises his hand to the door, and knocks.

It echoes It is: knock. Knock. Knock. Nothing. Emptiness.

Dean tries again. Nothing.

"I thought you said she was here?"

"She is," Gabriel says, and the door shifts and creaks and opens.

 

**XLI**

 

 

 

"You're not real."

"I assure you that I am."

Sam shakes his head. "You don't get it. You...you're not who he says you are. You can't be."

"And why not?" Castiel reaches out a hand - Sam seems to shy away from the potential contact, back almost hitting the wall. Castiel drops his palm to his side, running it along the length of his cords. "The time frame fits. My story corroborates. What other evidence do you need?"

"But - but - sir, Dean can't have gone to 1914. He can't. It ain't possible. I...I was...I was tryin' to help."

"1910," Castiel says.

"What?"

"I met him in 1910." Castiel forces air into his lungs; continues: "He stayed with me for six years, until the week after my eighteenth birthday. He was my best friend."

There is a stutter, in the words. Downstairs, there's a thump - and muffled laughter, and quiet swearing. The party must have started. Charlie's giggling echoes.

"There are five main factors, in growing flowers. soil, water, space, nutrients and light. He had a girlfriend named Lisa, and he's well read. He's - he's your brother. And he loves you. More than anything or anyone."

Sam Winchester gapes. He has confetti in his hair, and his jaw is hanging loose. "Who are you?" he says.

"Castiel," Dean Winchester says. "It's you, ain't it? Please say it's you. Please say it's you. Please, Cas. Please, please, please say." Dean steps forward, and takes Castiel's hand in both of his own, and pumps it hard.

Dean looks at him, and he's the most beautiful thing on the planet, and he's half-crying. 

Castiel's loses his breath. "I am," he says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

Dean's shaking his head. "Cas," he's saying, "oh, God, Cas, you don't - you shouldn't - you came back, man, you did, you came back to me." 

Castiel takes hold of Dean. They rock together. "I did," he whispers, into Dean's neck. "I waited for you." 

 

**XLII**

 

_Fact:_

_There are many different methods of weed control. You can exclude light from them, burn them with a blow torch, hoe them (cut off their leaves and stems at ground level, preventing photosynthesis from occurring) - the list goes on!_

 

.

 

_September 12, 1911_

 

"Daffodil. Chivalry." 

"Hyacinth. Constancy." 

"Buttercup. Uh - "

"Humility?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Daisy. Purity."

"Larkspur. Fickle nature."

"Marigold. Cruelty."

"Tulip. Love? Family love." 

"Tulip...err...dandelion?" 

"That's a weed!" Castiel yelps, triumphant. 

"Damn."

"That's swearing," Castiel points out. "You're red."

"Am not," Dean says.

"Are too. Can we go again?"

Dean moans, collapsing back against the pillows. "Da- _darn_ it, I'm too hot for this. I need a fan." From beneath the cracks of his eyelids, Dean peers out, lashes fluttering. Castiel doesn't bat an eye.

"If you're looking to me, you can forget it. I have work. Father set me additions."

"Ah, now you have homework. When you were playing with your undeniably attractive semi-tutor, you didn't - and now, you do."

Castiel blushes. "Stop it."

Dean pokes out his tongue. "You know you love me."

Castiel blinks at him, for a second.

"Yes," he says. "I suppose I must do."

Dean snorts. "Don't make a song out of it." 

"I sup-pose," Castiel sing-songs, "I must do, I must do, I must - " He jumos to his feet, and grabs Dean's hands, and tugs Dean along with him. Dean stumbles, but Castiel just about keeps him upright, and they run around and around together. 

"I must do," Castiel chirps, and Dean does it too: 

"I suppose I must do, yeah, yeah - " 

"I sup-pose, I sup-pose, I must love you a little!" 

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

When Anna was a young girl, she was a beauty; all red hair and sharp eyes and fire, from corner to corner. The figure who answers the door, however, is stooped. She has her hair in two ringlets - Princess Leia style - and wears a blue dress. There is a pattern of flowers, along its hem. For the life of him, Dean can't say why.

Anna Novak stares at him. She looks like her brother. Her hair is white. Her eyes are blue. Her back is bent. She raises her chin. When she smiles, she has a gap in her front teeth. The bottom row of them are yellowing.

"Dean Winchester," she murmurs, slowly - drawing out the name, until Dean's at breaking point. The woman's face splits, in a grin. "I knew you'd come back."

"Anna," Dean says - and then he steps forward, and tugs her towards him, mindless of her frail body, of her lack of strength. Against him, she's pitifully, painfully slight - as though a breath of wind might break her. "I have - "

 

**XL**

 

Dean moves back. He takes two steps. "Cas," he says. 

Dean's standing there, and he's stepping closer, closer and closer and closer, until there's no space between them at all - and Dean's thumb's tracing his cheek, almost - nearly, nearly -

Dean looks beautiful. He is loose, and young. He's perfect. He has freckles on his cheeks. He has a nose, and eyes, and a mouth. He's got arms, and legs, and feet, and hands.

Dean steps back, and turns away, and puts a hand over his face. Sam's looking at him. Sam's looking away. Sam looks at Castiel. Sam looks at Dean.

Dean turns back, and he's grinning, and his lips are stretched tight.

Sam coughs. "Err - "

Dean is not smiling. It isn't his smile. It is something fractured. It is a pale imitation.  
"Shut up, Sammy," Dean says - followed by: "Where do you live?"

"The edge of town," Castiel rasps, "out by the highway. I have...I have a garden."

Dean Winchester is standing in front of him.

Dean's smile is soft. "Course you do."

Dean Winchester is standing in front of him. Dean Winchester is beautiful.

"I...I won't ask you to come with me."

"Course you won't."

Castiel swallows, thickly - and for a second, he's a teenage boy again, something thrumming through his veins. "I want you to," he says.

"Yeah," Dean says, "I got that."

There is a hush.

"You left," Castiel says. "Why?"

"I didn't - I had to. I woke up, Cas."

"And - how do you feel? About me?"

"You're my best friend," Dean says. "And I'm coming with you, because you're my friend. And that's what friends do for each other. They stay."

Dean's hands go around his back. Dean rests his head on Castiel's shoulder. Castiel stands straight. His palms are sweating. He swallows. He gasps. His heart is racing.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I - "

"Shut up," Dean says, words muffled by the fabric of his jacket. "Ass-butt."

"I don't think I have an appropriate response to that."

Dean steps back, and puts his hands on Castiel's shoulders, and looks him dead in the eye.

"Cas," Dean says. "You're here? You - you're - "

It is the closest that Castiel has ever come to complete and utter happiness.

"I'm here, Dean," Castiel says. "I'll always come when you call."

Dean's eyes crinkle. His lip twitches.

He's smiling. So Castiel smiles, too.

 

**XLIV**

 

_Fact:_

_Lawn 'feed, weed and miss killer' should not be applied during prolonged dry periods, or droughts; it should be applied on warm, still days, when the soil is moist but the grass is dry._

 

.

 

_January 7, 1980_

 

Dean wakes up warm.

He's got his arm slung over the pillows, and a crick in his neck. Sunlight's streaming in. It's hot on his face.

Dean can taste his own breath. There are soft puffs, against his neck.

"Hello," Castiel says.

Dean smiles.

"Hey."

Castiel doesn't move, as Dean rolls onto his side. His hand creeps out, slow and steady, to rest against Dean's hip.

"Don't wanna get up," Dean says, into the pillow.

"Tough," Castiel replies. The fingers shift upwards, and Castiel's thumb goes into Dean's stomach. "I need breakfast."

"You'll live."

"You don't know that. I'm an old man. I could keel over any second." Dean blows onto his hand, and pulls a face. Castiel sighs. "Pay attention."

"Sorry," Dean says, even though he isn't. His ribs ache, again.

"Breakfast," Castiel says. "Then we'll talk about our day."

Dean sits up, levering himself up, holding onto the blankets. "We're not goin' to the cinema," he says. "You're a damn rogue."

"It was a good film." Castiel leans in closer, as Dean's feet touch the boards. "If you don't wish to watch another, I won't push you. However, I refuse to believe I was the sole culprit. My food was taken from me!" 

Dean stands, and shakes his head, and laughs. He swings around, holding onto the doorframe with one hand. There's a warm bubble in his chest. It's expanding and expanding - like he's a soda can, and he'll burst if you throw him down too hard.

"Hang on a sec," Dean says.

Castiel looks up at him, and smiles. "Certainly," he replies.

Dean smiles, and walks into the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him.

 

.

 

_Apri 24, 1980_

 

The walls have been repainted. They used to be pink, and now they're orange. There was a bust in the hallway. The clock on the wall's round, and red. The floor's tiled. There is no bust. There's a gramophone in the corner, though, with the windows behind it. 

Running his hand 

 

.

 

_January 7, 1980_

 

"Hey, I was thinking...how does the arcade sound?" Dean gargles it, through a mouthful of toothpaste.

Spitting it into the sink, he wipes at his mouth with a rag. There's a dolphin, on the front of it; it rides, over a choppy sea. Dean smiles at it. When he places it down, he gives it a tap - for good measure, and good luck. You can never be too careful.

"Didn't you say Charlie took you?" Dean laughs, slightly. "I bet that's a really good story, right there."

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

The house is grand; plush; opulent. Sam would probably have some more vocabulary words, but this is where Dean runs out - so, he settles for 'fancy', and tries not to think too much. Or step on the rugs.

The staircase winds upwards, spinning and twisting, towards the top of the house. There is a lattice-work pattern, on the banister; Dean runs his fingers along it, feeling the splinters, the shards.

If he was to walk up there, he'd find Castiel's room.

 

.

 

_January 7, 1980_

 

"But, you know...if you don't feel up for it, that's cool, too. We could stay home, and you could eat some of that delicious soup Jess made." Dean rubs a hand over his stomach, licking his lips. "Mmm. Peas, carrots and broccoli. Ain't you a lucky boy?"

Dean stretches. He raises his hands above his head, and stands up on his tip toes. A yawn comes out of his mouth.

The carpet is soft, beneath Dean's feet. He pads through, quietly - and really, he'll never get used to the stillness of this whole place. It's like a mausoleum - a shrine to something Dean can't name. Dean pushes open the door; it only squeaks a little. It's cold to the touch.

"As long as you don't expect me to eat it, we're - "

The door opens.

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

They sit at the table, holding hands. The fire hisses gently. Anna's fingernails are rounded. 

"Dean Windhester," Anna says, "Castiel spoke about you so much, he'd almost convinced me you were real before I saw you."

"You saw me? When?"

Anna smiles, slightly. "The station. I was saying goodbye to my - Castiel. It was a beautiful day."

"I remember," Dean says.

"The platform was full of people - at least four boys were going away. Maybe five. Not one of them came home." Releasing one palm, Anna prods at the flames with a poker. A piece of coal falls down, and sends up sparks. "I was too young to know much about it, really. We thought it would be over by Christmas. It was only when they started conscription..."

"Yeah. And...err...about..."

"What I saw?" Placing the poker down, Anna takes hold of his hands again. She threads their fingers together. "I saw a man. He looked to be in a hurry - and he was wearing the funniest clothes, like I'd never seen before. Castiel always said you wore funny clothes."

Dean snorts. "Sounds like him."

"You were running, and then - poof. Gone." Anna spreads her fingers wide; Dean's own move with them. "Gave me a fright, I can tell you. Sweating like a pig, and then - vanishing. Into thin air. I had been hoping...but it doesn't matter."

"I never knew," Dean says. "I thought - I didn't-"

"He's gone, isn't he?" Anna's hands are pale, against the red tablecloth. "That's why you've come."

Dean nods, and he tries to speak, but he's crying. Anna taps his knuckles. 

 

.

 

_January 7, 1980_

 

Castiel's lying still.

He's propped up against the pillows, with his eyes shut - getting a snooze in, no doubt. Dean smiles at the sight of him: blankets bunched up around his chest, silver hair spreading out over the pillow, hands slack on the sheets.

"Cas? Hey, buddy, time to get out and about." Cas doesn't move. Dean steps forward. "Buddy?"

No movement, again - gently, Dean shakes his arm, careful not to jostle him. His head falls to one side.

"No. No, no, no. Come on, Cas. Come on. Wake up. Wake up for me, buddy." Dean falls to his knees, half-meaning to; pulls Cas closer, closer, until he's in his arms, and their heartbeats are aligned. Cas is painfully light.

Dean can't feel a thing.

"Come on, Cas, I ain't fooling around. Wake up. Wake up!" Dean says. "Please. Please, please, come on, Cas, I need you, you've gotta be here, buddy, you can't leave me, God, please, just, just help him, oh God, Cas, Cas, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." 

Castiel's skin is clammy. 

"I can't," Dean says. "I can't. Please, you don't - please, Cas, please." 

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

"I'm sorry."

Anna shakes her head, slightly. Her curls pool at the nape of her neck. "No, I - it's alright. I already knew, I think. He would - he would have been very old, by now. Older than me, even. I was supposed to go...twenty years ago, by the book?"

"He was," Dean says. "Old. He didn't - the war..." 

"Oh, I knew he didn't die then." Anna fondles the edge of the cloth with her wrist, stretching it slightly. Her eyes are fixed on Dean's. "He sent me a letter, you see. A few years afterwards. It would have been...what...'21? '22? He told me he was still alive, and going to America. I meant to search, but I met Inias. My life happened."

"Inias?"

"My husband. He was very good to me, even - even though I couldn't give him a son. He said it didn't matter." Anna shakes her head. "You won't be interested in that."

"And he's...?"

"Gone, now. Don't you worry, boy - I'll see him again. I know it." Anna polishes her spectacles, on the sleeve of her dress; they glint. "After all...if something brought you here, why shouldn't I believe?"

 

.

 

_January 7, 1980_

 

"Cas..." Dean touches Castiel's cheek; runs his fingers down it. Forces them lower. Presses them against his neck. Waits. Waits. Waits. "Cas, don't go. Don't leave me. We're meant to be friends, right? We're meant to go out together, Cas. Get that? You can't just go."

Dean's calm. He knows it. He must be. Everything's narrowing down, into a point. He can hear his heartbeat. His chest rises. It falls. There's a hole in Dean's neck. Things are leaking.

Castiel's lying back, against the pillows. Dean puts his head against the edge of the bed.

When men are frightened, they pray upwards; they pray to their families; they pray to whoever, or whatever, has a goddamned chance of listening. God. Your brother. Your best friend.

"We were gonna go to the cinema," Dean says. "You'll like it. I promise. Superman, or shit. Won't bump into Charlie. Promise. You, and me, and that's it."

The clouds are white, and the sky is blue-gold. Dean rests his head on Castiel's shoulder, and feels the bone poking through it, and cries.

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

Gabriel's waiting in the bedroom. He's got his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. When the door opens, he rolls forward, so that they hang off the side. There are drape curtains, behind him; they're long and white, brushing against the boards. Dean's eyes are swimming. His head is full of cotton wool. 

"I had a friend, once. He'd have written about this. Something poncy, most likely." Gabriel stares up at the wall, stroking his hand along it. "Balthazar, he was called. Bit of a toff. Old money."

"Was he...?"

Gabriel shakes his head. "No. I didn't love him, if that's what you mean." 

Dean blows out, from between his teeth; he slumps onto the bed, undoing his boot laces. "You're never gonna tell me, are you?"

"A trickster's gotta have his secrets, Dean-o. That's how the game works."

"Some kinda sick game."

Gabriel's mouth twists. Dean works his fingers into the creases of his shoes; they slide off, onto the rug. Wiggling his toes, he winces - takes a sniff, and winces again.

"His name was Lucifer."

Dean looks to the right, quickly. Gabriel's hands are twisted together, in his lap. He's staring upwards, towards the ceiling. Dean half-expects to find a body up there.

"Lucifer? As in..."

"Satan. Yeah." Gabriel's lip quirks. "Parents were charming." 

"I can imagine." 

"We were in the army; joined up at the same time. Went through Hell together. That, and more." Gabriel's thumbs begin to twiddle - back and forth, back and forth. The motion is faintly hypnotic. "He deserted in a year, and I got a bullet in the brain. Never said goodbye."

"So you went looking for him."

"Found him, too." Gabriel's head lowers; his eyes meet Dean's. "All he wanted was to forget. I gave him that."

"He forgot you."

Gabriel shakes his head. "Not entirely. I'm too selfish for that. We can't...the memories don't vanish. They fade. Like scars - never quite going away."

Dean's bare feet touch the floor. "I scarred myself, once."

"How?"

Dean turns to him, with a chuckle. "I stuck a spade in my toe. God, did it sting. This kid hung around after. Brought me an ice pack."

"You? And children? Seems a dangerous combination, doesn't it? I would've thought your head would explode."

Dean pushes Gabriel's arm. "Watch it, ghost. I was a great gardener. They're all gonna be maestros. When the park comes around, I'll fill it with their masterpieces."

"Watch it, human," Gabriel retorts, and sticks out his tongue, "or that'll come true, and you'll have a montage of dinosaurs and aliens."

"Aliens? Really?"

"What? Kids love 'em. You, for example, like Superman."

Dean huffs, in protest. "I ain't a kid!"

"Only a kid would say that."

"Says you."

"Oh, you king of cutting remarks, I am injured. Grievously so."

"Yeah, well, you're not the best yourself. Looking pasty." 

"Almost - corpse-like?" 

For a second, Dean just stares. "Oh." 

"Oh." 

Dean giggles. And Gabriel giggles. Gabriel's hands land on his shoulders, and he slaps them both, one after the other. Dean leans back onto his elbows.

 

.

 

_January 7, 1979_

 

Dean goes downstairs. The stairs creak. The floorboards rattle. He opens the cupboard. He gets out two mugs. One is red. One is blue. Peonies. 

The home phone is in the hall cupboard. Dean has to fight past a mop to reach it. 

Sam picks up on the third ring. "Hello?" he says. 

"He's dead," Dean replies. There is a thump. Sam has dropped the phone. "Take your time." 

"Oh, Dean," Sam says, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

Dean brings his knuckles up to his knees. He sucks on one of them, cramming it in between his teeth.

"Not as sorry as I am. Believe me." Dean takes a sip of his tea. A seed packet almost hits him on the head. "Can you get here?" 

Dean leans back, and rests his head against the door.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Of course I can. I'm coming. Hang on." 

Dean closes his eyes. He breathes in, and he breathes out. He feels sick. He wants to yell out for someone, but Sam's not here, and there's nobody in here but him. 

"I ain't going anywhere." Dean shakes his head. "Move your butt." 

Dean hangs up, and his legs give out, and he puts his head on the ground and moans and cries and hits the floor with his fists. And when he's done, he takes Castiel's cup, and places it down. 

It's dark. Dean grips his knee with one hand, and chews on the other. The pain feels distant, like it's happening to somebody else, in a movie or in the back of the car or something. He's got tears in his eyes, he's biting down so hard. Dean can hear himself breathing, a long way off, a heavy _choo-choo-choo_ of noise. Like wind, almost.

Dean runs his hands over his face. They shake. There's a cramp in his gut. Something's trying to burst out, right through his skin. If Dean stays in here any longer, he's going to be sick. Sam's not with him, and he can't get Sam and get out, and there's a clammy palm on the back of his neck. It squeezes.

 

He stands up, and he goes out, and pushes open the door. The air smacks his face; his cheeks sting. 

The wisteria are above him. Dean faces them. There's the larkspur, and around the back there are roses - and Dean looks at the wisteria, and he looks and he looks.

Dean gasps, thrashing forwards, knocking his head against the wall. When he turns around, it's gone, but there's still something there, something in the room with him - the wind, creeping in through the cracks, _choo-choo-choo_ , and it's gone cold and quiet.

 

Dean stiffens. He can hear his heartbeat; sweat's trickling down his throat, into his collar. His nails are digging into his palms. Dean removes them, and they leave little dots of blood behind. His skull's throbbing; there'll be a bruise in the morning, and Sam will want to know why, and he won't have an answer. 

The wall scrapes his back. Dean's shaking, from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet. He pulls on the thread at the hem of his trousers. It comes out in his fist. He tightens his hand around it, and turns it over. It's moving.

The wisteria rustle. Dean digs his fingers into the dirt. Castiel told him the name for this: _floribunda_ , he'd said, and he'd smiled. There must be a word for what he's feeling: the sensation in his gut, the squeezing, the thing that's trying to get out. 

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

"Dean?" Anna says, and Dean's head snaps up. In the doorway, Anna smiles at him. Her hair is in ringlets. "Are you getting to bed?"

"Yeah. Just...talking to myself." Dean laughs. The sound is brittle. Snaps. "Stupid, huh?"

"Oh, I don't know about that." Anna moves closer; takes a seat, beside him. The bed creaks, beneath their combined weight. "When Inias first passed, I spoke to him every day. Sometimes, it almost seemed as though he was listening."

"Do you think that's true? About ghosts, and stuff. Do you think they could be...out there?"

Anna rests a palm, on his shoulder. "I don't know about that. I'd like to think he's watching over me, somewhere...but to be stuck here? I wouldn't want it for him. He was always too good, for this place. If he's here, then he's got a job to do - and once it's over, he'll be gone." Anna's fingers squeeze. "Get some rest."

Dean tips his head back, and nods. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

Gabriel's hand rests in the centre of his back. His fingers drum up and down. 

 

**XLV**

 

_Fact:_

_When trimming hedges, don't cut them back too far, or else the end result will be nothing but ugly._

 

.

 

_April 24, 1980_

 

Dean wakes in a sweat. It's still night; he runs to the window, and opens it, and sticks his head into the still air. He can see the countryside: fields, and fields, with stick-thin fences in-between. The wind's going a mile a minute. It sounds like a bird.

From the branches of the beech tree, and owl soars away, wings spread wide. It's yelling. Dean rests his head against the sill, and laughs.

"Learning," he says. "Knowledge. Right? That's what beech trees mean." 

"Sustenance," Gabriel cuts in. "Perseverance." He's lounging back against the bed, one brow raised. He smirks. 

 

.

 

_April 25, 1980_

 

Anna's hedges are in need of cutting. Dean hacks away at them, arms straining; the shears are heavy in his hands, and there's a fine sheen of sweat, dripping down his back, soaking into his shirt. There are greenflies.

At around lunchtime, Anna brings him lemonade. It's in a pale green glass.

"You'll be going back, soon?"

Stepping down off the ladder, Dean accepts the glass. Ice cubes click against the sides. "Think so. After this is done."

"It's been good to see you, again. Here, I mean."

Anna's hands are tiny. Warm. Dean has to look down at her.

"Yeah. You, too."

One hand comes upwards; cups his cheek. "You know, Castiel always said the kindest things about you. I thought he was exaggerating."

"Was he?"

Anna's eyes are blue, and familiar.

"No. Not in the slightest."

"Right," Dean says. Anna's skin is peppered with dots and marks and wrinkles. 

 

**XLVI**

 

_Fact:_

_Plants require sufficient room to grow, no matter where they are._

 

.

 

_April 26, 1980_

 

Anna makes the call, and books him a ticket. Dean can see her, through the crack in the door; shuffling up and down, in her soft slippers, hands flapping, growing increasingly irate.

"I thought I was dead, when I got here. I thought I was never gonna get out."

To his side, Gabriel looks up. "And after? When you got back?"

Dean shrugs; shrugs again. "Everyone...Sammy said it wasn't real. I believed him." Dean sighs; rubs his eyes, with his hands. "I wanted to believe him."

"And now?"

"What about now?"

"Now that you know it's real. Who are you gonna tell?" Gabriel fiddles with the cuffs of his uniform - and all of a sudden, it occurs to Dean that this man had a story, too.

Gabriel's got his legs crossed. He's wearing long socks. They've been folded down a couple of times, so that they leave marks on his skin.

There's a beech tree, up above them. Its leaves cast shadows onto Gabriel's face - autumn-gold and dirt-brown. It's pretty beautiful, really.

"I don't know," Dean says. "Don't know who I can tell."

"There's always Crowley," Gabriel says.

They look at each other. Dean laughs until his sides ache.

 

**XLVII**

 

_Fact:_

_The greatest gardens are often the simplest. Bear it in mind whilst landscaping._

 

.

 

_April 26, 1980_

 

Anna drives him to the airport. Or, rather, Anna has somebody drive him into town, in order to reach the airport.

The man's name is Garth. He's pretty small, Dean thinks. Kinda fragile. Like a bird, or something.

"It'll take us a while," he says, when he shakes Dean's hand. "I'd get comfy."

 

.

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

In the garden, the lavender bushes flutter; they must be propelled by the breeze. 

Castiel nods - much too wisely, for a child of...how old? Twelve? He can't be that big. He's a runt. 

"Ah. You're a ghost, then," he says. "Are you one of father's brothers? He did lose a couple." Castiel looks him up and down. "You don't look like father." 

 

.

 

_April 26, 1980_

 

On the steps, Anna and Dean embrace. Her hair tickles his cheek.

"What is the chance, do you think, that I would have survived my pneumonia, if it had become full-fledged? If it had been serious; if I had been forced into a sanatorium? If the condition hadn't severely lessened?" Anna smiles, when she steps back. "Practically none," she says. "And do you know why I didn't?"

Dean shakes his head.

"Because it didn't spread. Because I didn't _have_ it. Because, when I was a young girl - when it was first found - somebody was looking out for me."

Dean shakes his head, again. "I didn't stop it. It was luck. It was - I couldn't. You were very, very lucky. That's all." 

"You, Dean Winchester," she says, "are good. And do not let anyone tell you otherwise." Anna smells of perfume. Her fingers are bony.

"I'll sort out the car," she says, and she shakes her head, and she smiles. "When were you planning on telling me, again?"

 

 .

 

_June 23, 1910_

 

"No! No, I'm - I'm alive. Definitely." Dean touches a hand to his chest; and yeah, he's still solid. Not about to go 'poof', and disappear into thin air. "I just...got here."

"Like...like magic?" Castiel looks hopeful - there's a little glint in his eyes, as though he wants it - wants magic to be real, wants there to be fairies and unicorns and pirates and adventure - wants there to be more.

Dean can't help but smile, because it's been a while since he's seen that.

"Yeah. Like that. Except - " 

 

.

 

_April 26, 1980_

 

Garth drives a truck. It's a Ford D Series. 1967, he says. Classy.

Anna is watching, as Dean climbs inside. The car smells of cinnamon sticks, and wetness. There's a pamphlet in the side-panel.

"Sorry about the stink," Garth says.

Dean clips on his belt. "Got a dog?"

"Nope," Garth laughs. "Kids."

"So what are you? Her nephew, or something?"

Garth smiles; he shakes his head. He has dimples.

"Not me," he says. "I'm her gardener."

Dean starts. Garth keeps on looking straight ahead. He taps out a rhythm on the wheel.

"Somebody's got to keep that place in order," he says. "And she can't. Not anymore. There were a couple of guys before me, I think. I don't know. My wife helps to clean."

Anna raises a hand, and waves. She's standing underneath a birch tree. The leaves cast dapples on the ground, and on her face, and on her dress and on her hair.

The truck rounds the corner, and she is gone. Dean's breath is tight in his throat.

"How old are they? Your kids."

Garth blinks, twice. "Six, seven and twelve," he says. "Bundles of terror, the lot of 'em."

There are trees, and there is the road. There are no lights. There is no spark. Once in. Once out.

 

.

 

They drive for half an hour. Dean puts his head back against the seat. Garth hums. The windows are halfway down, so that air can blow in. Dean's got goosebumps all along the back of his neck, and the sides of his arms.

England's pretty. Now that Dean's not so jet-lagged, he can appreciate it. Trees. Roads. Fields and fields of flowers, and barley, and corn.

A fly buzzes on through, and lands near Garth's upper arm. He frowns, batting it away with the palm of his hand. It moves to one side, dodging, and hides out nearby the door jam, head-butting the glass.

The trees peel back, until there are more houses; they're tall. Little grey roofs.

Garth winds down the window, and the fly is thrown outside, and he shuts it up again.

"Can you open that?" Dean says, and Garth looks at him, and says:

"You okay?"

And Dean tries to say that yes, he is okay, but instead, what comes out is _pull over._

 

.

 

The side street is practically empty, when Dean enters it. The day's a chill one; it seeps into his bones, soaking through the thin layers of plaid and denim. Thin. Thin. Thin and sticky and sticking.

Dean takes out the bottle, and stares at it. It's warm. He tips it up; watches the drops drip downwards. He lets it fall. It smashes. By his left foot, a dandelion pushes through the pavement.

There's a cough.

"Fuck off," Dean says.

"You should be more careful with that. Some people think they're flowers."

 

.

 

The man is tall. He's young - maybe twenty, maybe twenty five. He has dark hair; it sticks up in tufts, around his forehead. Somebody's tried to brush it, or something like that; parts of it are completely flat, almost sticking to his skull.

He's got good bone structure; cheekbones, and all that. If Dean had to sum him up in a word, he'd say - 'interesting'. Maybe. He's handsome, in a distracted way.

He has blue eyes, and wears a tan overcoat.

Life has a way of throwing curve-balls. By Dean's reckoning, this one is just a little more curved than all the rest.

At the end of the alley, there's a grey bottle. It's leaking.

"Cas," Dean says.

The water is freezing up. It spirals; it cracks.

"Hello, Dean," Cas replies.

Dean reaches up a hand, slowly; runs it along stubble. It feels real - he can touch it, and it moves beneath his fingertips.

There are a million things Dean wants to say, at this point in time.

"You came back," is all he can get out.

Castiel smiles - softly, gently. Barely there. "Yes."

There is silence; a car goes by. Light flashes between the walls, rising up. It goes away. Cas doesn't speak. Chest goes in, out, in, out. Like a pump. Over. And over. And over. Again. His hands are curled up, by his sides. Dean's breath comes quick in his throat. It's stupid - not as though they haven't been through all of this before.

"You ain't real," Dean says.

Castiel sighs. "I am here. I am standing before you. How much more evidence do you require?"

Dean stares. "Prove it," he says.

Castiel meets his eye, unblinking. "You're an imbecile."

In the half-darkness, Dean surges forward, and grabs Castiel's coat collar. Castiel's right up in front of him. There's a flush on his cheeks. His breath is on Dean's face. It's warm, and - sweet.

"Dean Winchester," Cas says, voice a whisper. It doesn't waver once. It's the kind of sound that could make a person fall down, right there on the spot. "What are you doing?"

"Mowing your lawn," Dean says.

They kiss. It's awkward - their teeth knock together, and Dean's heartbeat's surging right out of his chest where they touch, clothes rubbing and rustling - and Cas's hands go to his waist, looping there, and Dean clings on.

_Don't go, don't go, don't leave me here -_

And then they're kissing - really kissing - heat and passion and tongues and teeth, and it feels like it should be sunny, and it feels like there should be flowers, in their little old cottage at the end of the road.

It isn't.

Castiel's hands go underneath Dean's shirt. Dean gasps. Castiel's fingers move. Slow and steady sweeping. Stately. Taking his time. Precise.

It isn't like the movies, in the end. Not even close. It's messy. It's broad. It's hot. Dean bites Castiel's lip. Cas cries out. He gasps. Dean gasps. His palms are sweating. Castiel's eyes are wide. He's breathing fast. He's frightened.

"I need you," Dean stutters - can barely get the words out, in the inch of air between them, through the heat coursing through his form - "I need you." 

"Dean," Castiel breathes, "you don't."

"Don't go. Don't leave me. You can't - you can't-" Dean clings onto the trenchcoat, bunching his fingers in the lapels. "You can't just - just..." 

"I'm sorry," Castiel's saying - and Dean shakes his head, no. No. _No_.

"Don't even think about it. Don't - I can't - I can't do this without you. I don't know how."

Castiel's hands move to his face. They cup together, over his cheeks; Cas presses his face close, so that their breaths intertwine, forming a column upwards.

"Dean Winchester," Castiel says, "you are the brightest human being I have ever met, and - and I will always, always need you. I will need you until the stars cease to shine, and I can't find you anymore - and even then, I shall hold onto your memory, and every time I close my eyes, you will be the only thing I see."

"Shit. That - that - shit. You want me to say it? That's what you want? You want me to say I'm - I'm-" Dean shakes his head; once, twice. The world swims. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. "You can't just leave me. Please, Cas. Please." Thumbs rub soothing circles, into his jawline; he leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering. "I...we need you."

"Dean," Castiel says - and then he's laughing; he's laughing against Dean's lips. "Dean you never needed me. I always needed you." 

Dean's crying, now; they're great, choking, gulping sobs. "I need you," he says, and there is no lightning bolt. There is nothing at all. "Took me too long to say it, yeah?" 

"And I - I always - I always - " 

Dean's smiling - and he doesn't know why, but he's smiling, and there's an ache in his chest, and his mouth has clogged itself with tears. "We could've been great."

Castiel looks at him; looks, with those big, heavy eyes; looks, and looks, and smiles. Beneath the street light, his face is bleached white, and rimmed with gold. It is not a bright gold. It is barely there at all.

"I'm going to have to go," he says, as though it's the simplest thing in the world.

"I ain't leavin' you," Dean says. His chest is cold.

Castiel blinks. Blinks. Shakes his head. "You will. One day, you'll look back, and this will be but a distant memory - and that's the way things should be. That's how things - work."

Dean shakes his head, pressing their foreheads together. Castiel's breath is warm, on his skin. "No. I won't - I ain't never forgetting what we got. Alright? Never."

Castiel's eyes are blue - so very, very blue. "You will. You will have to."

Dean smirks, through his drumming pulse-beat, and the thundering in his brain - like lightning, setting everything aflame. Dripping and dropping. "You can't make me."

Castiel's eyes are very, very blue, and very, very sad. "I'm sorry."

Dean shakes his head, rapidly; and his throat's closed up, and everything's sealed. "No. No, I won't let you. You wouldn't do that." Dean tries to step back. Cas's hands tighten, locking him in place. "You wouldn't - Cas, you - everyone will remember. It won't just be me. They'll - they'll..." 

"You'll remember me. It just...it won't be as clear. I'll be a face, in a photograph. I won't...you won't..."

"Sam," Dean says, tight-chested, "Sam knows. You won't get him, too."

"Dean," Castiel says, like that's all he has to say. "To everyone else, I was simply a lonely old man, who wanted your company. That's all. And they will thank you for it."

"You can't. You can't. Things like that...you can't take them away. That's - that ain't - that's wrong."

"I have to. It's the right thing to do."

"No, it ain't!"

Dean's shouting, now. He doesn't care overmuch. At the other end of the alley, a walker looks inside, peering close. She has a dog, and headphones.

"Your pain would be gone, Dean," Castiel says. "You wouldn't have to feel this. Any of this." Castiel spreads his arms wide - Dean steps back, stumbling. "You would be at peace...even with yourself!"

"So - so brainwashing me is right? Takin' my mind - is right? That's what you think?"

The woman rounds the corner, jacket flapping. It's blue, and has racing stripes on the sides.

Castiel swallows, once more, neck bulging. "Yes," he says, quietly. "Yes, it is."

"Then you're one messed up son of a bitch. It's bullshit. You know it, Cas. You know it." Dean reaches up; moves closer. His hand curls into a fist, halfway. "I know you know it. So pull your head out of your lily white ass, and see it!"

Castiel inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Dean doesn't look away.

"Dean - "

"I don't want to forget, Cas. Any of it. I don't want to forget the garden, or the house, or your stupid - your stupid flowers. I don't even want to forget Gabriel, and that's saying something!" Castiel laughs; Dean grins, or grimaces. "Yeah, it hurts! Suck it up! That's life! That's what living is!"

"It was worth it," Castiel finishes. His voice is quiet.

"Yes," Dean says, the word shattering on his tongue, sealing it up like glue. "It's worth it."

"How?"

Dean exhales, short and sharp. "You're not getting this, are you?"

Castiel frowns. "I believe that - " 

Dean's hand stills, on Castiel's cheek; Castiel leans into the touch.

"You're my...you're my padawan, man. And if you say you don't understand that reference, I swear to God, I'll shove lawn fertiliser up your ass."

"That is very crude."

Dean snorts, raising a hand to his eyes. "Jesus. You really don't change, do you?"

Castiel stares. "Ah..." 

"Didn't think so."

Beneath the glow of a street lamp, Dean pulls Castiel close, and kisses him. Castiel's mouth tastes like smoke, and limes, and toothpaste, and desperation, and heat; Dean wraps warm arms around him. Castiel's skin is icy-cold - like frost.

"It ain't fair. It ain't fucking fair."

"It was worth it," Castiel says. "It was."

Dean shakes his head; once, twice. "No."

Castiel's eyes shine. His breath smokes; and he's real, he's standing there, his arms around Dean; and he's everything, everything Dean's ever wanted, right in front of him. And ain't that just a cliché? Ain't that just it all?

Cas's eyes are squeezed shut; and he tilts his head forwards, until it's on Dean's, and Dean's is on his. And there are tears - stars - where there shouldn't be, and there's no light for anybody to see by.

Cas is shivering.

"Damn it," Dean says. "We'll - you'll - take my jacket, okay? Come on, just take it, please. Stop - "

"You'll be happy," Castiel's breathing out, in a plume of white. "I need you to - to promise me. Promise me, Dean."

Dean steps back. Castiel's teeth are gritted. There are goosebumps, rising out of his skin - and he's wearing a jacket, and he's wearing a shirt, and he's shivering.

"You're cold?" Dean says. It sounds hollow to his own ears - an echo, the ringing aftermath of some other, better words.

Castiel flinches, but doesn't look away. "Promise me. Please."

It isn't like the movies, in the end. It was never going to be. There isn't a flash of light; no clematis climbing the walls, no rake with which to sleep leaves. There are no flowers. It ends in the back of an alley, standing underneath a neon street sign, with two men and a brick wall and a dumpster.

"C'mere," Dean says. "Cas. Don't - don't - "

He shrugs off his jacket, and hands it across, but Cas doesn't take hold. His movements jerk. There's a hollow in his throat. He can't breathe around it. He can't see. He can't tell where the tears end and the stars begin.

"Dean Winchester," Castiel says. "Thank you."

It isn't like in the movies, in the end. If it was, this would be the point of the rescue.

"Hey," Dean says. "We're not done yet. You hear me?"

"I never said," Castiel starts. "I never told you." And then, just like that, he's gone.

Dean stares at the wall. "Cas?" he says. "Castiel?" And there is no reply, because nobody is there, and it's snowing, and he's standing in the slush. 

"I'm - I could've - I'm - get back here, you bastard!" Dean turns. Castiel isn't there. 

 

.

 

XLVI

 

April 26, 1980

 

"You know, for a second there, I thought you were actually going to do it."

Gabriel stands with his hands in his pockets. He isn't smoking. Castiel never thought he'd see the day.

"So did I."

Gabriel's eyes narrow. "What stopped you?" A

few feet away, Dean stands. He has short, brown hair, and green eyes, and wears a plaid shirt. There are freckles on his cheeks, and a scar on his left toe; he has one hand raised, caressing empty air. It falls to his side.

"Cas?" he says. "Castiel?"

He's crying. His palms run through his hair. He tilts his head up, and runs his hands through his hair. His teeth are gritted, and there are tears running down his cheeks, and his chest is shaking.

"Ah," Gabriel says. "Right."

Dean starts to move away. His shoulders are high. He's got his face towards the wind, but he doesn't seem to care. The man stoops; he picks the weed beside his foot. Slipping it into his pocket, he tilts his face towards the sky, and blows out a breath. It rises upwards. Castiel can't look away - can't help but watch, as he looks around, and walks towards the street. He's got his head down, and his throat's working. He doesn't look back.

The snow crunches. The street-light glows. The buildings are brown. Black. One of them has a drawing on the side, spray-painted on. There is a set of footsteps in the sheen of snow, winding away between the buildings.

Castiel's hand twitches. It's empty. "Please," he says.

Gabriel's exhalations are hot. "Ready to go?"

Castiel closes his eyes. "As I'll ever be," he says. He's crying, too. They aren't little tears. They're big. They stick.

Opening up his pocket, Gabriel fumbles inside. When his hand reemerges, he's holding a tin. There is a red picture on the front. It used to hold a photo of his girl, among other memorabilia.

Castiel arches a brow. "Those things'll kill you, you know."

Gabriel snorts with laughter. "Ever the joker, eh, Cassy? Trying to steal my crown? I'm impressed."

"You should be," Castiel says. He is still crying. He can't seem to make it stop. Gabriel grins, white and bright and airy. The knuckles of his hands stick out, like bone-stubs.

"That's right," he says. "Ssh. Ssh. You're here. I'm here. That's what counts."

"Indeed," Castiel replies - chokes on the noises. "Shall we...?"

Above them, the streetlight flickers - once, twice. The air is chilled, and the ground is frosted. Castiel tilts his head back, and tries - tries - to think clearly. About anything. Anything and everything. Anything and everything and anything at all.

It is about: separate plant pots, and growing seasons, and pruning and trimming and cultivating. It is about: a boy with blonde hair and green eyes and freckles and stub fingernails and knock legs and bony knees and a bright smile - the brightest smile.

It is about: striped carnations, and daisies, and white roses - about regret, and what could-would-should have been.

It is about: a boy with blonde hair and green eyes, and words that made Castiel breathless. It is a good story. It is not the one he wanted, but it is a good one. He'll give it that.

"Snowing," Gabriel says. "Quaint."

"That's all you have to say?"

Gabriel shrugs. "What else do you want? An apology? Sorry things didn't work out, have a cigarette? I can give you one."

Castiel wrinkles his nose. "I bloody hate those things." The lighter flickers. Gabriel holds the cigarette between his teeth, and flicks at it with one hand, cupping it in the other.

"You're going to kill yourself," Castiel comments. "Again."

"I'll do as I please, and I'll be pleased with what I do."

"Yes," Castiel says. "You will."

"You're angry at me." Gabriel says it like a statement. Technically, it should be a question. Are you angry at me?

"No." Gabriel stares.

Castiel sighs. "Yes. Why?"

"Why what?"

"You didn't tell me," Castiel says.

"About Dean?" It shouldn't be a question. It should be a statement, technically. "You didn't ask."

"I did ask. I tried to ask."

"And I tried to tell. Which one of us did worse?" Gabriel's words are muffled. The cigarette has not been lit.

Castiel steps forward. "Give that to me," he says, and Gabriel does, and Castiel lights it. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Gabriel's hands are lined. There are chunks of dirt, beneath his nails. "You're not going to forgive me, are you?"

"I don't know," Castiel says. Gabriel opens up his pocket, and takes out another cigarette. "Give me a fag."

Gabriel smirks. "Sure thing, Cassy," he says. "You certainly are invested in these Americans. You're even starting to talk like one."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Not that. A bloody smoke." Gabriel passes him a cigarette. His fingers are white. Castiel takes it; he bites down on the end.

"Take it," he says, and gives Gabriel the lighter. Gabriel blinks, twice; he says, "What? You're giving me free reign? Doesn't seem appropriate."

"Light it," Castiel says. Gabriel does, on the second attempt. Castiel's body buzzes. The ground tilts, and he coughs. "Why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Castiel pulls the cigarette out, and stamps on it. He feels sick. "Didn't it matter? Did any of it matter, to you?"

Gabriel's eyes are brown, and amber, and green. They're a shade away from traffic lights. "Are you honestly going to make me say it?" he is saying. "Make me tell you why?"

Castiel swallows. "Yes."

"Are you sure you want to know the answer to that?"

Castiel looks across. Gabriel puts the lighter back into his pocket. It's dented. It has mud on the side. On the ground, a layer of white powder is building up. Gabriel has snowflakes in his curls. The night is cold; colder than anything, really. Castiel can't feel his hands, anymore. He can't feel his feet. It is like saying goodbye, he thinks. It is all like saying goodbye.

"What do you think?" he says.

Gabriel steps forward, and pushes a strand of Castiel's hair to the left. "There," he says. "That's why."

"You told him I loved him," Castiel says. "Didn't you? Tell me that you did."

"You could've done it." Gabriel sighs. "I did what you asked. And I'm sorry I didn't - I don't know - match you up. He seems like a decent guy. Genuinely."

"Oh," Castiel says, "so he wasn't good enough for me? You get to make that judgment?"

"You could have told him yourself."

"No, I couldn't." Castiel pinches his fingers together. "He didn't need me. He needed - someone else."

"Someone sadder? Someone who could lend an ear?" "That's not what I meant."

"I know." Gabriel's fingertips skim across his cheek. "I know. You meant someone who could understand." 

 

.

 

_Sunflower (helianthus)_

_The sunflower is a genus of plants, and is annual. It has a large, golden head (or capitulum), and can, in some cases, grow up to three metres tall, with proper care and nourishment._

_The flower head is an inflorescent; it is formed out of thousands of tiny florets, which come together to make one false flower, called a pseudanthium. Their meanings include loyalty, and longevity._


	10. Chapter 10

**XLVII**

 

_April 26, 1980_

 

The kiss lasts for a moment. It does not take long. Gabriel tastes of biscuits and cigarettes. His fingers dip beneath Castiel's chin.

"England mourns," Gabriel says, "for her dead across the sea."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says.

Gabriel smiles. That doesn't last long, either. "I know. I know."

"I'm in love," Castiel says.

"I know. I know. Believe me, I do."

"I'm in love," Castiel repeats.

"He's beautiful," Gabriel says. "I understand."

"He's more than what you think."

"I'll believe it when I see it. Seems to me, your boy is your type." Gabriel laughs. It doesn't sound like his laugh. "You know what I did, Cas? I'll tell you: I lied. I could have said where he was, and I didn't, because I was selfish, and because I wanted you. There. Are you happy? Does that makes things better?" 

"Then - why did you - why did you try to help him? Why did you keep your promise?" 

"You thought you weren't good enough to care for him, after you - passed. I knew _I_ wasn't. I knew you were. _He_ wasn't. So I - well, I considered that maybe - maybe - two broken souls could help each other. He hid from himself. I shot people." Gabriel takes another drag. "Flesh of her flesh, they were," he says, "spirit of her spirit. Fallen in the cause of the free."

 

**XLVIII**

 

_Fact:_

_Spiders are a common type of garden pest. When they hatch out, baby spiders make a long strand of spider silk that is caught by the wind like a balloon and carries them away to a new home._

 

. 

 

_April 26, 1980_

 

Dean Winchester is sitting outside a cafe, and he is crying. There's a red bench, with splinters all along its sides. He has his head against the glass, and his legs outstretched. Somewhere, a dog is barking. It sounds like a poodle.

There is a shadow, directly above him. A car passes by. It doesn't have its headlights on. It isn't a Chevy. Dean has snow on his jeans. His hair is wet.

"Quiet night," Garth says.

Dean drags a hand over his eyes. He swallows. He swallows twice.

Garth hunkers down, so that his palms are on his knees, and his legs are bent double. It doesn't look comfy.

"You can say that again," Dan says.

"Quiet night."

"That's - that's not even a joke, man."

Garth shrugs. "Made you smile, didn't it?"

Dean almost nods, and then remembers himself.

"Who's Castiel?" Garth asks.

"That's what you're askin'?"

"Couldn't help but overhear." Garth locks his hands together over his knees. "I think you scared some dogs."

Dean barks out a laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There is a woof, again. It's a loud woof. Maybe the poodle's had a growth spurt, or something. Never know what you'll find, round these parts.

"I let our garden die," Dean tells him. "I - it wasn't even mine, and I let it die."

"Our garden? Yours and - his?" Dean nods, once, and Garth nods, too.

"I let his garden die," Dean says. "And we weren't - we never even-"

"Naff," Garth says.

Dean blinks. "What?"

Garth smiles, a little. "Never mind," he murmurs, gentle as you please, "it doesn't matter."

Dean coughs. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. His hands are cold. His throat is numb.

"You could always - make it up again. Or something."

Dean shakes his head. He sighs. He shakes his head, again. He sighs, again.

"When he took a breath," he says, "I took the next one. You can't make that."

"I'm sorry," says Garth.

"I left the Impala in Kansas," Dean replies. "Charlie's gonna kill me. Sammy's gonna kick my corpse. And I stole a car."

Garth raises a brow. "I should report you for that."

The poodle's gone quiet. The car is just plain gone. Inside the cafe, someone laughs.

"Are you gonna?"

Garth closes his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I needed him," Dean says. "Real bad. He was my best friend. Still is."

Garth shakes his head; he looks across. "Isn't that just the way?"

Dean swallows. His mouth is dry. His hands are clammy. He's frozen. "What else would it be?" he says. He tries to say. He can't speak. He swallows again. His mouth is dry. There's a gap in his chest.

He begins to cry.

Garth puts a hand on his shoulder. Dean puts his head in his hands, and shakes. He shakes.

"Why? Why did it have to happen, huh? Why did it happen to us?"

The hand tightens. Garth's fingers are warm. The snow is melting, around them - and more is falling, and falling and falling and falling. The laughter starts up, again. Somewhere, somebody has the capacity to laugh. The air smells of frost.

"Never seen it snow," Garth says. "Not at this time of year."

Dean looks up. "It's nice," he says. 

"Get much snow in America?" 

"Don't see why it matters to you." 

"I'm making conversation," Garth says. "It doesn't seem to be working." 

"Mother never told you not to talk to strangers?" 

"Seeing as my mum died when I was two, she'd have had a hard job." 

"Sorry." 

"Nah. I didn't know her. It's my dad you should be apologising to." Garth stands. He beats the snowflakes out of his coat, but it doesn't make his nose any less red. "He was the one who had to miss her."

 

**XLIX**

 

_April 26, 1980_

 

"What's that?" Castiel asks. "Your party piece?"

"They shall not grow old," Gabriel says, "as we that are left - "

"Grow old." Castiel sighs. "You always were real, weren't you? You lied to me, too. You - you wanted to stay with me." 

Gabriel takes out his lighter, again. He flicks it on, and then off. The flame quivers. "Quite right, boyo," he says. "And don't we have places to be?"

 

**L**

 

_Zephyranthes (zephyranthes)_

_Zephyranthes is a subfamily of seventy one species, within the broad Amaryllis family. Technically, it is classed as a herb, and is a perennial. It's a hardy breed, and can survive in difficult conditions._

_The name is drawn from anthos, meaning flower, and Zephyrus, God of the West Wind. This species includes the magic lily, the fairy lily, and the rainflower._

_In flower language, its definition is somewhat unusual. It stands for a number of things; however, the following are what it is known most commonly for._

_1\. I love you back; 2. I must atone for my sins; 3. I will never forget you._


End file.
